The Hunt
Title: The Hunt
Author: wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Russia, America: appearances by Wild Bill Cody, George Custer, and Grand Duke Alexei.
Premise: Buffalo hunting; makeouts. Also some other stuff, I guess, but those are the key points.
Nebraska, 1872.
Custer was explaining how not to die.
"Don't get cocky. I know you all can ride, and you all can load a gun, but everything's different once the herd gets moving. You drop the reins, and trust your horse to keep up with the buffalo. Pay attention to your horse! It'll lunge out of the way of any attacks for you, but if that lunge catches you by surprise, you're on the ground under three thousand stampeding hooves."
America checked the loading gate on the right side of his Winchester 1866, and fixed the lever in place. He wasn't listening. He'd done this before.
"Also keep in mind that if your horse founders and breaks a leg, you'll die anyway," Bill Cody added cheerfully. "So I hope you all took the opportunity to send a letter to your loved ones when you were back at the train station."
Custer ignored him. "So far we've been separating small groups of animals from the main herd. This is different. Since His Imperial Highness wanted to--"
"Alexei, please," the Grand Duke interposed.
"--Wanted to do a run before sundown, we can oblige. But I'm going to be pretty goddamned embarrassed if you get killed and our countries end up going to war over it," he finished.
Russia smiled, and shifted his weight in the saddle. "I'll only fight if he wants to." He jerked his chin in America's direction.
"I'm not going to war because your royals can't stay on a horse," America shot back. And then, "Ow!" as Grand Duke Alexei winged a pebble at the side of his head. The pair of them had been getting along since New York.
Custer kept talking. America nudged his horse up alongside Russia's. He lowered his voice. "You know, this is pretty dangerous," he said off-handedly. There was a twitch at the corner of his mouth. "Are you sure you know how to ride?"
"I guess we'll see." Russia patted the neck of America's palomino absently. His eyes fixed on the plain spread out before them. "Try not to get trampled. I'd hate to see your horse get hurt."
America gave him a perfunctory elbow.
The truth was, the two nations had never been further from war; the Grand Duke had arrived in Maryland, stopped in for literally fifteen minutes to see the President, acquired America in the hallway, and then sauntered vaguely westward through a cavalcade of parties thrown for him in every city. America and Russia had been as surprised as everyone else when the anticipated military alliance had not occurred, but the sting of that was lessened by the parades, gifts, and private audiences thrown to honor the (unofficial) 'union of our two nations.'
It was the sort of phrase that made America blush a shade and studiously avoid eye contact with Russia, but it was...nice, all the same.
Custer's monologue ended. Cody shouted, "All right then, let's go!"
America snapped out of his reverie. Russia gathered up his reins and glanced over at America with a grin. "Don't die on me, all right?"
"What, and leave you all alone in the world?" he countered. He swung his rifle under his arm and spurred his horse forward. The prairie lept beneath him.
Their party had swept across half the distance between their campsite and the wide, dark mass of the buffalo before the herd realized they were there. America couldn't hear them, yet, though they were starting to turn; the herd dissolved a little around the edges, and the low-hanging sunlight flashed across eight hundred animals realigning together to face the hem of the sky. Then they were moving--then they were running--then he could hear them: a low even drum of thunder that roared into whitewater as they drew even with the hindmost.
America urged his horse faster, skirted edge of the herd. Leave the easy shots for the others. He snapped his rifle to his shoulder and dropped the reins around his saddle horn. He heard a gunshot somewhere off to the left, and didn't turn to look. His horse tried to peel away from the herd and he nudged it back in with his heel. He was in it, then, the animals were all around him, and he could have reached out and down and run his hands across their backs, and the noise was deafening--
This time he barely heard the gunshot, and his shoulder snapped back against the recoil. The wounded animal lunged; America kept his seat, gripped the lever, dropped the rifle from his shoulder, pulled, felt the satisfying snap as the shell was ejected and the next round fell into place. By the time he took aim for his second shot, the first animal staggered to the side, hesitated for a moment, then toppled over.
The body vanished behind him.
Sometime in all of this--and he had no idea how long it was--he dropped the stock of the gun again and looked around for the others. Alexei, there, Cody beside him, of course; he couldn't see Custer; but there, there was Russia, focused and unassailable Russia, sunlight glittering across the bullets he clenched between his teeth. America forgot about the hunt for an interval of seconds, and the noise, and the shocks as his horse dug up frantic divots in the prairie, and just watched.
Then he leveled his gun, and got back to what they were there for.
Some time later he became aware of the heaving in his horse's sides, and he set back his gun for the last time, picked up the reins, and peeled away from the herd. Somewhere, the others were still shooting--some of them, at least--and his shoulder didn't hurt yet from the excitement, though it would, and his horse slowed and stopped some distance apart, against a tree. He dropped to the ground, tossed his rifle aside, and staggered a few paces off until he could stretch out on a bit of hillside that was still painted with sunlight. His muscles pinged and twitched. He tipped his hat over his face, and smiled.
The warmth from the sun and the ground soaked into him. It felt good.
He heard the grass wrinkle beneath someone's feet, and, suddenly, his hat was pulled up off his eyes. He blinked, blinded for a moment, and squinted up at the dark form kneeling at his side. Russia's face was covered in dust. His eyes shone. He gave America a lopsided smile. "Happy?"
"Hey, you lived!" He grabbed Russia's coat by the shoulder and yanked the other nation down beside him, into that warm patch of grass. He pulled off his glasses and threw the back of his hand over his eyes to shield them from the light. "Yeah, that's just--that's like nothing else, you know?"
Russia plucked the glasses out of his hand and examined them. "It's--extraordinary. I've never seen animals like that before. Like reindeer, but so much stronger." He looked back to where the giant carcasses were splayed on the prairie, the wind ruffling the coarse long hair at their necks. "Harder to bring down." He dropped the frames into the grass and shrugged. "I don't know how you managed not to break those."
"Because I'm goddamned amazing, that's how." America stretched and rolled over onto his elbows. He ruffled a hand through his hair and raised a cloud of golden dust. "Where's the others?"
"They're headed for the campsite." Russia glanced down at him. "And you're…having a nap?"
"I'm not napping," he protested. He laid his head down on his folded arms and smiled, eyes closed. "I'm...what's that word..."
"Resting?" Russia chuckled. He stretched out on the grass, arched his back. "I don't think it matters what you call it. You're lying here with your eyes closed."
"Luxuriating," America informed him. "That's the one." His shifted his head to watch his companion. His eyes crept along the golden curves of Russia's profile. This close, he could see the tiny particles of prairie dust, just large enough to stir in the breeze. Dirt was caked lightly across his lips, and there were long stalks of dry grass threaded through his hair. "You looked good out there. You have fun?"
"Yes," Russia sighed. "But not as much as you, I think. You were in your element." He looked over, and their eyes met. "I think His Imperial Highness was very impressed. He likes you, you know."
"Everybody likes me," America grinned. His eyes were always so still, how did he do that? He shifted, reached out, and pulled a bit of straw out of Russia's hair. He twisted it around his fingers in the sunlight. Russia twitched a bit and looked at it.
"Indeed they do. Although I have no idea why." He smiled. "You're awful company."
"What are you talking about," America dismissed. He propped himself up facing Russia, his head in his hand. He still hadn't got over how much easier it was to move around, since the end of his civil war. He nibbled at the bit of straw.
The sun sank lower still. Russia's eyelashes shone in the dim light. "All this land--" he murmured, and gestured out at the wimpled grass. "What are you going to do with all this? There's so much...I don't think you could settle it if you tried."
America raised his eyebrows a little and lowered the piece of straw. "What do you mean? You have more land than I do."
"Not like this." Russia reached out and snatched the straw out of America's hand. He twirled it between his own fingers. "Miles and miles of gold, that's what you have. Not ice." He chewed idly on the edge of the stalk.
America watched him for a few seconds, then turned back on his stomach and gazed out across the sighing landscape. "I don't know," he mused. "Maybe it'll just be here. I guess I don't have to do anything with it, do I?" He opened one hand and ran his fingertips across the tips of the grass. "But I think I'd like to see people here," he added quietly.
Russia stared up at the sky. Purple and--gold again, just like the grass. He toyed gently with the frayed stalk in his hands. "Well, there's room. Even if you don't let them out here, I'm sure your people will come anyway. If they're anything like you, they won't be able to resist all this."
America looked back at him. "Why wouldn't I let them?" he asked, surprised. "I--I want them to go wherever they want. I--" I wish I could just give you some of this, he wanted to say. He caught himself smiling at the thought. Before he'd left with Grand Duke Alexei, President Grant had made him promise that he wouldn't sell the Russians anything.
"You what?" One last spin, and Russia flicked the straw over his head, away, back onto the prairie. He leaned over. His hand grazed America's hip. "Canteen," he explained as he fiddled with the strap. It came away with a sloshing sound.
America struggled with a small flush, blinked, and remembered the question. "Oh, nothing. Just something my boss said." Russia brought the canteen to his lips. On sudden impulse, America brushed a hand through Russia's hair. The other nation stiffened and coughed.
He liked Russia's hair, America decided. It was soft, and thick, and always felt a little cool whenever he worked up the courage to touch it.
Russia wiped the mouth of the bottle with his sleeve and pushed it into America's free hand. "Here," he managed.
Their fingers brushed. America started. He looked down at the canteen, wet his lips, and gave a quick "Oh, no thanks" before accepting it. Then he wasn't sure what to do with it. He took a drink to cover over his confusion.
A thin prairie wind spiraled across the plain, and for a moment, the world was nothing but the hiss and murmur of grass. Russia reached over and brushed a few stray strands of hair out of America's eyes, and America drew in a quiet breath. His head turned into Russia's hand, unthinking, so that the other nation's fingertips brushed across his temple, and the heel of his hand almost touched his cheek. Then he froze. His heart pulsed over a knot of what felt almost like guilt.
Caught.
Russia's eyes widened. For a moment, his hand was motionless. Then it dropped, just a bit, until his fingers traced America's bottom lip. "What are you thinking?" he asked. His voice was husky. Maybe from the dust.
The breath America had taken trembled out, and it stirred the fine hairs across the back of Russia's hand. He felt his face turn warm. In his mind's eye he caught Russia by the wrist, pushed him back, and kissed a path through that golden speckling of dust across his neck--and he tried to think of anything to say that wasn't that.
He failed, and smiled. He thought he should probably drop his eyes, but he didn't. His mouth moved, just to feel the contour of Russia's fingertip; it wasn't quite a kiss.
Russia trembled; America could feel it against his lips. There was a small, breathless pause. Russia's caress followed the outline of his mouth, then swept across to his jaw. His hand curled into the gentle hollow there. His callused knuckles grazed the sensitive skin beneath America's ear.
"America." Every syllable was gentle.
America held eye contact. He leaned into Russia's touch and nuzzled his jaw against the inside of his wrist, and reached out and slid his fingers across that soft, thick hair. His hand stopped to rest at the back of his neck. He loved Russia's hair, and the cool resilience of his skin, and that still, deep-running violet gaze. America made sure not to think. He leaned forward and laid a kiss across his mouth.
Russia's whole body tightened, and his fingers dug into America's neck, sharp, just for a moment. Then his arm came up, and hooked around America's shoulders. Russia kissed like he spoke, deliberate and searching and sensitive to any change. His tongue moved across America's bottom lip; it flicked at the corners of his mouth. He tasted like warm dust and something older, and America let out a shaking gasp and tightened his arm around his neck. Their tongues met, light, brief. He dug his fingers into the back of Russia's overcoat, and pressed him in a little closer.
For a while, it was all just their breath and the grass, both hushed and shivering. Russia made a small, insistent noise against his lips--a moan. Was that a moan?--and pulled America tighter against him. One of his hands fell to his waist, looped around his hipbones. The rise and fall of Russia's chest was quicker now. America shifted across the grass to settle flush against him, still propped up on one elbow, his arms tangled into Russia.
Now he kissed him harder, deeper, and he buried one hand in Russia's hair, like he had wanted to since he couldn't think when. The arm that supported him slid forward an inch, and he knotted his fingers in Russia's sleeve. Russia nudged against his mouth again, breath coming fast. He arched his back, let his head settle against America's hand. He was whispering something, lips tracing vague foreign shapes against America's. The grass bent and broke beneath them, and Russia drew him over him, wrapped his arms around his neck. America dropped forward with a hard exhalation.
He curled his fingers into the curve at the base of Russia's skull and kneaded in, held him up into hungry, searching kisses. He curled his other arm up around Russia's shoulder, trapping them together from chest to hip. He felt warm, everywhere, cooled by the oncoming night breeze and Russia's skin, wherever he could find Russia's skin, but so warm that he couldn't think. He thought he might be making those broken, breathless sounds. At least, they weren't Russia--Russia's little sounds were different, and he thought maybe he loved those, too, and anyway he wanted to make them keep going, just so he could be sure.
Russia shifted, lifted his free had to cup America's face again. He pulled him close by the very ends of his hair. He slid a hand beneath his shirt, grazed his belly, slipping a little in the sweat that still clung to him from the hunt. America tightened, broke the kiss, and dragged his lips across Russia's face to his temple, and then back into his hair. God, it even smelled good, like early frost on dry autumn grass. His coat slipped from his shoulder, and he impatiently shrugged it off. The night air was a cold wash across his back, and he pressed close to Russia for a moment, trapping his hand between them, before allowing a little space again. He ran a hand inside Russia's jacket and down his side. Russia arched into him.
Russia's hands found the buttons of America's shirt. His eyes flicked upwards for permission. America smiled, dizzy, almost gave a breathless laugh, because, what, I'm going to say no? He started picking open Russia's buttons as well, starting from the one just below the arch of his ribs and working both up and down. He drew in a short breath as his hand pressed against Russia's bare stomach, he was cold, that still came as such a surprise--but it was fine, he didn't mind, he didn't care, America had more than enough heat for both of them.
Russia's body tightened beneath his hand, and his skin was flushed. A flush on Russia was a healthy color on anyone else, but it was a start. He let out another of those little noises as he dragged America's now-open shirt up past his shoulders, licking and nipping his way up his chest. His mouth paused on America's collarbone, trailed into the hollow of his throat, and his touch was suddenly gentle. Almost tentative. America shivered and shrugged half out of his shirt. He tucked one arm under Russia's neck and passed the other around his back, inside his clothes, and cradled him up, into himself. He suddenly just wanted to make him warm: because this was important, and good, and within his power to accomplish. He ran his hands over Russia's skin, palms open and pressed against him.
"America," Russia said again, and this time the word buzzed against the other nation's neck, a gust of warmth. Russia's arms wrapped around him, pulled them together, close and flush and--secure. He snatched at one of America's hands, and pressed his lips against his palm. He sank his teeth in ever so slightly.
A hot flare shot from the base of America’s neck, through his stomach, to his groin, and his fingers jerked lightly closed against Russia's face. Russia closed his eyes. America dropped his head forward and nuzzled to the curve under his jaw. He tasted dust and sweat and Russia's skin, and he stopped every few kisses to lick it off his lips. He lowered his hand to Russia's throat, and fumbled open the knot of his short scarf. He tugged it open, pushed back his collar, and kissed down his neck. Russia sucked in a sharp breath. He went rigid. He dropped his hands onto America's shoulders and pushed gently. America pulled away at once, one hand rested light on Russia's chest. His voice was hoarse. "What--?"
"I--We shouldn't--" It was all Russia could force past his lips, and he was shaking, from the sudden cold or--or something. He turned his face and let his eyes trail out to the horizon, a lighter blue against a nearly black sky. His fingers curled into America's sleeve. America blinked down at him, awash in confusion.
Why not? he wanted to ask, but the words couldn't rise faster than his tide of embarrassment, which turned his cheeks scarlet in the darkness and sealed his lips shut. He pulled back and sat up, his legs folding up around him like a protective cage. "A-all right," he stammered; and he might have stopped there, but something was still--wrong. He didn't know what, didn't even really know how he knew, but it was something about the way Russia was...the way he was breathing, or the way his head was tipped away, or how he'd had to tug (too quickly, without meaning to at all) to get his sleeve back. So he kept talking. "I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to--um--i-if I--"
Russia sat up, pulled his knees to his chest, and dropped his chin onto his arms. He looked much younger, suddenly, with his clothing in disarray and his hair mussed. He looked over at America, and then motioned with his left hand. Come here.
America slid a bit closer to him as he pushed his right arm back into his shirt. He swallowed against a swell of dread.
A beat, and then Russia pressed his hand to America's face, feeling, rather than seeing, the flush there. "I'm sorry," he said softly.
"Oh God, really, it's okay, you don't have to explain anything, please don't try to make me feel better about the whole thing--" tumbled out of him.
"'S not your fault," Russia murmured, and pressed a kiss to America's lips.
America broke away and blushed harder. He looked down, and, just to have something to do, started buttoning up his shirt again. "I know, it's just a...look, it's fine. Things like this are...delicate. Right?" He looked up and met his eyes, then, and since there was enough light from the moon and stars to see Russia's expression, he knew Russia could see him, too, so he smiled. It was a good smile. "I'm not upset, don't worry about it."
He thought, I am lying to Russia for the first time.
Russia stared at him a moment, making sure their eyes locked. He reached out, gently slapped America's hands away from the front of his shirt, and did up the other nation's buttons himself. "Are you sure?"
America kept smiling, and said, "Sure I'm sure."
Russia nodded. "All right, then." He got to his feet and held out a hand for America. "I think our horses are getting impatient."
America stayed where he was, and shook his head. "I need to find my glasses. Go on ahead, and let 'em know I'll be there soon."
Russia studied him for a second, then nodded. He jerked his scarf tighter around his neck and walked off into the ankle-deep grass, the stalks rippling and swaying shut behind him.
America pulled on his jacket and ran his fingers through the grass for a minute, until he bumped against his spectacles. He put them on, then lay back again and gazed up at the sky.
He wondered what he had done wrong. In another hour or so, someone would come looking for him, and it would not be Russia. He tried not to think about the small, cold place that had opened up under his ribs.
When he licked his lips, he tasted dust and frost.
+++
-- God as my witness, this actually happened. In 1872, Grand Duke Alexei Alexandrovich, son of Tsar Alexander II of Russia, made a goodwill tour of the United States that included a buffalo hunt in Nebraska, which was overseen by Wild Bill Cody and George Custer. I highly recommend reading about that entire trip, because it was absolutely amazing.
-- Incredibly, considering the United States' ironclad policy of military neutrality at the time, Russia and America actually were on the cusp of a full military alliance in 1872, which only fell through at the last minute (mostly due to the fact that President Grant was a pretty terrible statesman). The two nations enjoyed unrivaled goodwill towards each other, and the 'union between Russia and the United States' was widely and warmly spoken of in both countries.
+++
This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.
Author: wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Russia, America: appearances by Wild Bill Cody, George Custer, and Grand Duke Alexei.
Premise: Buffalo hunting; makeouts. Also some other stuff, I guess, but those are the key points.
Nebraska, 1872.
Custer was explaining how not to die.
"Don't get cocky. I know you all can ride, and you all can load a gun, but everything's different once the herd gets moving. You drop the reins, and trust your horse to keep up with the buffalo. Pay attention to your horse! It'll lunge out of the way of any attacks for you, but if that lunge catches you by surprise, you're on the ground under three thousand stampeding hooves."
America checked the loading gate on the right side of his Winchester 1866, and fixed the lever in place. He wasn't listening. He'd done this before.
"Also keep in mind that if your horse founders and breaks a leg, you'll die anyway," Bill Cody added cheerfully. "So I hope you all took the opportunity to send a letter to your loved ones when you were back at the train station."
Custer ignored him. "So far we've been separating small groups of animals from the main herd. This is different. Since His Imperial Highness wanted to--"
"Alexei, please," the Grand Duke interposed.
"--Wanted to do a run before sundown, we can oblige. But I'm going to be pretty goddamned embarrassed if you get killed and our countries end up going to war over it," he finished.
Russia smiled, and shifted his weight in the saddle. "I'll only fight if he wants to." He jerked his chin in America's direction.
"I'm not going to war because your royals can't stay on a horse," America shot back. And then, "Ow!" as Grand Duke Alexei winged a pebble at the side of his head. The pair of them had been getting along since New York.
Custer kept talking. America nudged his horse up alongside Russia's. He lowered his voice. "You know, this is pretty dangerous," he said off-handedly. There was a twitch at the corner of his mouth. "Are you sure you know how to ride?"
"I guess we'll see." Russia patted the neck of America's palomino absently. His eyes fixed on the plain spread out before them. "Try not to get trampled. I'd hate to see your horse get hurt."
America gave him a perfunctory elbow.
The truth was, the two nations had never been further from war; the Grand Duke had arrived in Maryland, stopped in for literally fifteen minutes to see the President, acquired America in the hallway, and then sauntered vaguely westward through a cavalcade of parties thrown for him in every city. America and Russia had been as surprised as everyone else when the anticipated military alliance had not occurred, but the sting of that was lessened by the parades, gifts, and private audiences thrown to honor the (unofficial) 'union of our two nations.'
It was the sort of phrase that made America blush a shade and studiously avoid eye contact with Russia, but it was...nice, all the same.
Custer's monologue ended. Cody shouted, "All right then, let's go!"
America snapped out of his reverie. Russia gathered up his reins and glanced over at America with a grin. "Don't die on me, all right?"
"What, and leave you all alone in the world?" he countered. He swung his rifle under his arm and spurred his horse forward. The prairie lept beneath him.
Their party had swept across half the distance between their campsite and the wide, dark mass of the buffalo before the herd realized they were there. America couldn't hear them, yet, though they were starting to turn; the herd dissolved a little around the edges, and the low-hanging sunlight flashed across eight hundred animals realigning together to face the hem of the sky. Then they were moving--then they were running--then he could hear them: a low even drum of thunder that roared into whitewater as they drew even with the hindmost.
America urged his horse faster, skirted edge of the herd. Leave the easy shots for the others. He snapped his rifle to his shoulder and dropped the reins around his saddle horn. He heard a gunshot somewhere off to the left, and didn't turn to look. His horse tried to peel away from the herd and he nudged it back in with his heel. He was in it, then, the animals were all around him, and he could have reached out and down and run his hands across their backs, and the noise was deafening--
This time he barely heard the gunshot, and his shoulder snapped back against the recoil. The wounded animal lunged; America kept his seat, gripped the lever, dropped the rifle from his shoulder, pulled, felt the satisfying snap as the shell was ejected and the next round fell into place. By the time he took aim for his second shot, the first animal staggered to the side, hesitated for a moment, then toppled over.
The body vanished behind him.
Sometime in all of this--and he had no idea how long it was--he dropped the stock of the gun again and looked around for the others. Alexei, there, Cody beside him, of course; he couldn't see Custer; but there, there was Russia, focused and unassailable Russia, sunlight glittering across the bullets he clenched between his teeth. America forgot about the hunt for an interval of seconds, and the noise, and the shocks as his horse dug up frantic divots in the prairie, and just watched.
Then he leveled his gun, and got back to what they were there for.
Some time later he became aware of the heaving in his horse's sides, and he set back his gun for the last time, picked up the reins, and peeled away from the herd. Somewhere, the others were still shooting--some of them, at least--and his shoulder didn't hurt yet from the excitement, though it would, and his horse slowed and stopped some distance apart, against a tree. He dropped to the ground, tossed his rifle aside, and staggered a few paces off until he could stretch out on a bit of hillside that was still painted with sunlight. His muscles pinged and twitched. He tipped his hat over his face, and smiled.
The warmth from the sun and the ground soaked into him. It felt good.
He heard the grass wrinkle beneath someone's feet, and, suddenly, his hat was pulled up off his eyes. He blinked, blinded for a moment, and squinted up at the dark form kneeling at his side. Russia's face was covered in dust. His eyes shone. He gave America a lopsided smile. "Happy?"
"Hey, you lived!" He grabbed Russia's coat by the shoulder and yanked the other nation down beside him, into that warm patch of grass. He pulled off his glasses and threw the back of his hand over his eyes to shield them from the light. "Yeah, that's just--that's like nothing else, you know?"
Russia plucked the glasses out of his hand and examined them. "It's--extraordinary. I've never seen animals like that before. Like reindeer, but so much stronger." He looked back to where the giant carcasses were splayed on the prairie, the wind ruffling the coarse long hair at their necks. "Harder to bring down." He dropped the frames into the grass and shrugged. "I don't know how you managed not to break those."
"Because I'm goddamned amazing, that's how." America stretched and rolled over onto his elbows. He ruffled a hand through his hair and raised a cloud of golden dust. "Where's the others?"
"They're headed for the campsite." Russia glanced down at him. "And you're…having a nap?"
"I'm not napping," he protested. He laid his head down on his folded arms and smiled, eyes closed. "I'm...what's that word..."
"Resting?" Russia chuckled. He stretched out on the grass, arched his back. "I don't think it matters what you call it. You're lying here with your eyes closed."
"Luxuriating," America informed him. "That's the one." His shifted his head to watch his companion. His eyes crept along the golden curves of Russia's profile. This close, he could see the tiny particles of prairie dust, just large enough to stir in the breeze. Dirt was caked lightly across his lips, and there were long stalks of dry grass threaded through his hair. "You looked good out there. You have fun?"
"Yes," Russia sighed. "But not as much as you, I think. You were in your element." He looked over, and their eyes met. "I think His Imperial Highness was very impressed. He likes you, you know."
"Everybody likes me," America grinned. His eyes were always so still, how did he do that? He shifted, reached out, and pulled a bit of straw out of Russia's hair. He twisted it around his fingers in the sunlight. Russia twitched a bit and looked at it.
"Indeed they do. Although I have no idea why." He smiled. "You're awful company."
"What are you talking about," America dismissed. He propped himself up facing Russia, his head in his hand. He still hadn't got over how much easier it was to move around, since the end of his civil war. He nibbled at the bit of straw.
The sun sank lower still. Russia's eyelashes shone in the dim light. "All this land--" he murmured, and gestured out at the wimpled grass. "What are you going to do with all this? There's so much...I don't think you could settle it if you tried."
America raised his eyebrows a little and lowered the piece of straw. "What do you mean? You have more land than I do."
"Not like this." Russia reached out and snatched the straw out of America's hand. He twirled it between his own fingers. "Miles and miles of gold, that's what you have. Not ice." He chewed idly on the edge of the stalk.
America watched him for a few seconds, then turned back on his stomach and gazed out across the sighing landscape. "I don't know," he mused. "Maybe it'll just be here. I guess I don't have to do anything with it, do I?" He opened one hand and ran his fingertips across the tips of the grass. "But I think I'd like to see people here," he added quietly.
Russia stared up at the sky. Purple and--gold again, just like the grass. He toyed gently with the frayed stalk in his hands. "Well, there's room. Even if you don't let them out here, I'm sure your people will come anyway. If they're anything like you, they won't be able to resist all this."
America looked back at him. "Why wouldn't I let them?" he asked, surprised. "I--I want them to go wherever they want. I--" I wish I could just give you some of this, he wanted to say. He caught himself smiling at the thought. Before he'd left with Grand Duke Alexei, President Grant had made him promise that he wouldn't sell the Russians anything.
"You what?" One last spin, and Russia flicked the straw over his head, away, back onto the prairie. He leaned over. His hand grazed America's hip. "Canteen," he explained as he fiddled with the strap. It came away with a sloshing sound.
America struggled with a small flush, blinked, and remembered the question. "Oh, nothing. Just something my boss said." Russia brought the canteen to his lips. On sudden impulse, America brushed a hand through Russia's hair. The other nation stiffened and coughed.
He liked Russia's hair, America decided. It was soft, and thick, and always felt a little cool whenever he worked up the courage to touch it.
Russia wiped the mouth of the bottle with his sleeve and pushed it into America's free hand. "Here," he managed.
Their fingers brushed. America started. He looked down at the canteen, wet his lips, and gave a quick "Oh, no thanks" before accepting it. Then he wasn't sure what to do with it. He took a drink to cover over his confusion.
A thin prairie wind spiraled across the plain, and for a moment, the world was nothing but the hiss and murmur of grass. Russia reached over and brushed a few stray strands of hair out of America's eyes, and America drew in a quiet breath. His head turned into Russia's hand, unthinking, so that the other nation's fingertips brushed across his temple, and the heel of his hand almost touched his cheek. Then he froze. His heart pulsed over a knot of what felt almost like guilt.
Caught.
Russia's eyes widened. For a moment, his hand was motionless. Then it dropped, just a bit, until his fingers traced America's bottom lip. "What are you thinking?" he asked. His voice was husky. Maybe from the dust.
The breath America had taken trembled out, and it stirred the fine hairs across the back of Russia's hand. He felt his face turn warm. In his mind's eye he caught Russia by the wrist, pushed him back, and kissed a path through that golden speckling of dust across his neck--and he tried to think of anything to say that wasn't that.
He failed, and smiled. He thought he should probably drop his eyes, but he didn't. His mouth moved, just to feel the contour of Russia's fingertip; it wasn't quite a kiss.
Russia trembled; America could feel it against his lips. There was a small, breathless pause. Russia's caress followed the outline of his mouth, then swept across to his jaw. His hand curled into the gentle hollow there. His callused knuckles grazed the sensitive skin beneath America's ear.
"America." Every syllable was gentle.
America held eye contact. He leaned into Russia's touch and nuzzled his jaw against the inside of his wrist, and reached out and slid his fingers across that soft, thick hair. His hand stopped to rest at the back of his neck. He loved Russia's hair, and the cool resilience of his skin, and that still, deep-running violet gaze. America made sure not to think. He leaned forward and laid a kiss across his mouth.
Russia's whole body tightened, and his fingers dug into America's neck, sharp, just for a moment. Then his arm came up, and hooked around America's shoulders. Russia kissed like he spoke, deliberate and searching and sensitive to any change. His tongue moved across America's bottom lip; it flicked at the corners of his mouth. He tasted like warm dust and something older, and America let out a shaking gasp and tightened his arm around his neck. Their tongues met, light, brief. He dug his fingers into the back of Russia's overcoat, and pressed him in a little closer.
For a while, it was all just their breath and the grass, both hushed and shivering. Russia made a small, insistent noise against his lips--a moan. Was that a moan?--and pulled America tighter against him. One of his hands fell to his waist, looped around his hipbones. The rise and fall of Russia's chest was quicker now. America shifted across the grass to settle flush against him, still propped up on one elbow, his arms tangled into Russia.
Now he kissed him harder, deeper, and he buried one hand in Russia's hair, like he had wanted to since he couldn't think when. The arm that supported him slid forward an inch, and he knotted his fingers in Russia's sleeve. Russia nudged against his mouth again, breath coming fast. He arched his back, let his head settle against America's hand. He was whispering something, lips tracing vague foreign shapes against America's. The grass bent and broke beneath them, and Russia drew him over him, wrapped his arms around his neck. America dropped forward with a hard exhalation.
He curled his fingers into the curve at the base of Russia's skull and kneaded in, held him up into hungry, searching kisses. He curled his other arm up around Russia's shoulder, trapping them together from chest to hip. He felt warm, everywhere, cooled by the oncoming night breeze and Russia's skin, wherever he could find Russia's skin, but so warm that he couldn't think. He thought he might be making those broken, breathless sounds. At least, they weren't Russia--Russia's little sounds were different, and he thought maybe he loved those, too, and anyway he wanted to make them keep going, just so he could be sure.
Russia shifted, lifted his free had to cup America's face again. He pulled him close by the very ends of his hair. He slid a hand beneath his shirt, grazed his belly, slipping a little in the sweat that still clung to him from the hunt. America tightened, broke the kiss, and dragged his lips across Russia's face to his temple, and then back into his hair. God, it even smelled good, like early frost on dry autumn grass. His coat slipped from his shoulder, and he impatiently shrugged it off. The night air was a cold wash across his back, and he pressed close to Russia for a moment, trapping his hand between them, before allowing a little space again. He ran a hand inside Russia's jacket and down his side. Russia arched into him.
Russia's hands found the buttons of America's shirt. His eyes flicked upwards for permission. America smiled, dizzy, almost gave a breathless laugh, because, what, I'm going to say no? He started picking open Russia's buttons as well, starting from the one just below the arch of his ribs and working both up and down. He drew in a short breath as his hand pressed against Russia's bare stomach, he was cold, that still came as such a surprise--but it was fine, he didn't mind, he didn't care, America had more than enough heat for both of them.
Russia's body tightened beneath his hand, and his skin was flushed. A flush on Russia was a healthy color on anyone else, but it was a start. He let out another of those little noises as he dragged America's now-open shirt up past his shoulders, licking and nipping his way up his chest. His mouth paused on America's collarbone, trailed into the hollow of his throat, and his touch was suddenly gentle. Almost tentative. America shivered and shrugged half out of his shirt. He tucked one arm under Russia's neck and passed the other around his back, inside his clothes, and cradled him up, into himself. He suddenly just wanted to make him warm: because this was important, and good, and within his power to accomplish. He ran his hands over Russia's skin, palms open and pressed against him.
"America," Russia said again, and this time the word buzzed against the other nation's neck, a gust of warmth. Russia's arms wrapped around him, pulled them together, close and flush and--secure. He snatched at one of America's hands, and pressed his lips against his palm. He sank his teeth in ever so slightly.
A hot flare shot from the base of America’s neck, through his stomach, to his groin, and his fingers jerked lightly closed against Russia's face. Russia closed his eyes. America dropped his head forward and nuzzled to the curve under his jaw. He tasted dust and sweat and Russia's skin, and he stopped every few kisses to lick it off his lips. He lowered his hand to Russia's throat, and fumbled open the knot of his short scarf. He tugged it open, pushed back his collar, and kissed down his neck. Russia sucked in a sharp breath. He went rigid. He dropped his hands onto America's shoulders and pushed gently. America pulled away at once, one hand rested light on Russia's chest. His voice was hoarse. "What--?"
"I--We shouldn't--" It was all Russia could force past his lips, and he was shaking, from the sudden cold or--or something. He turned his face and let his eyes trail out to the horizon, a lighter blue against a nearly black sky. His fingers curled into America's sleeve. America blinked down at him, awash in confusion.
Why not? he wanted to ask, but the words couldn't rise faster than his tide of embarrassment, which turned his cheeks scarlet in the darkness and sealed his lips shut. He pulled back and sat up, his legs folding up around him like a protective cage. "A-all right," he stammered; and he might have stopped there, but something was still--wrong. He didn't know what, didn't even really know how he knew, but it was something about the way Russia was...the way he was breathing, or the way his head was tipped away, or how he'd had to tug (too quickly, without meaning to at all) to get his sleeve back. So he kept talking. "I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to--um--i-if I--"
Russia sat up, pulled his knees to his chest, and dropped his chin onto his arms. He looked much younger, suddenly, with his clothing in disarray and his hair mussed. He looked over at America, and then motioned with his left hand. Come here.
America slid a bit closer to him as he pushed his right arm back into his shirt. He swallowed against a swell of dread.
A beat, and then Russia pressed his hand to America's face, feeling, rather than seeing, the flush there. "I'm sorry," he said softly.
"Oh God, really, it's okay, you don't have to explain anything, please don't try to make me feel better about the whole thing--" tumbled out of him.
"'S not your fault," Russia murmured, and pressed a kiss to America's lips.
America broke away and blushed harder. He looked down, and, just to have something to do, started buttoning up his shirt again. "I know, it's just a...look, it's fine. Things like this are...delicate. Right?" He looked up and met his eyes, then, and since there was enough light from the moon and stars to see Russia's expression, he knew Russia could see him, too, so he smiled. It was a good smile. "I'm not upset, don't worry about it."
He thought, I am lying to Russia for the first time.
Russia stared at him a moment, making sure their eyes locked. He reached out, gently slapped America's hands away from the front of his shirt, and did up the other nation's buttons himself. "Are you sure?"
America kept smiling, and said, "Sure I'm sure."
Russia nodded. "All right, then." He got to his feet and held out a hand for America. "I think our horses are getting impatient."
America stayed where he was, and shook his head. "I need to find my glasses. Go on ahead, and let 'em know I'll be there soon."
Russia studied him for a second, then nodded. He jerked his scarf tighter around his neck and walked off into the ankle-deep grass, the stalks rippling and swaying shut behind him.
America pulled on his jacket and ran his fingers through the grass for a minute, until he bumped against his spectacles. He put them on, then lay back again and gazed up at the sky.
He wondered what he had done wrong. In another hour or so, someone would come looking for him, and it would not be Russia. He tried not to think about the small, cold place that had opened up under his ribs.
When he licked his lips, he tasted dust and frost.
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-- God as my witness, this actually happened. In 1872, Grand Duke Alexei Alexandrovich, son of Tsar Alexander II of Russia, made a goodwill tour of the United States that included a buffalo hunt in Nebraska, which was overseen by Wild Bill Cody and George Custer. I highly recommend reading about that entire trip, because it was absolutely amazing.
-- Incredibly, considering the United States' ironclad policy of military neutrality at the time, Russia and America actually were on the cusp of a full military alliance in 1872, which only fell through at the last minute (mostly due to the fact that President Grant was a pretty terrible statesman). The two nations enjoyed unrivaled goodwill towards each other, and the 'union between Russia and the United States' was widely and warmly spoken of in both countries.
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This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.