Spring Exchange Fic 2010 [1/4]
Title: To Build a Home [1/4]
Author: Me
Rating: PG-13/light R
Word Count: app. 8,000 (with notes)
Warning: Enough fluff to rot your teeth and bones, a little bit of Cold War angst, and possible OoC situations, America being deep, self-beta’d.
Summary: Still in the slump of the recession, America proposes a ‘stay-at-home’ date. Russia whole-heartedly agrees, but that doesn’t mean that their time together doesn’t go on without a hitch.
A/N: Spring exchange fic for batneko. The prompt chosen was fluff and nonsense. I’m not sure if I added enough nonsense (or fluff, for that matter), but I hope you like it! :)
--
When Russia arrived in the IAD terminal earlier that day, America met him, sunshine grin widening as sky blue eyes softened with tenderness. Russia smiled back, repressing the urge to drop his carry-on bag to gather the youth into his arms. It had been months since they had been able to see each other in person, and Russia had been feeling the ever-increasing strain of their long-distance relationship with each year they enjoyed together.
He wondered, as he bent down to kiss America’s soft cheek, if he was getting old. Or, maybe, America’s youth was rubbing off on him. He didn’t know which, but neither possibility mattered; what mattered was that they had a week together (a whole week, he thought excitedly), and they would make each moment count--as always.
“I missed you,” whispered the blond as he leaned up to wrap his arms around broad shoulders. Russia, feeling his face flush with contentment, took his lover into a loose embrace. “I have missed you also, lyubov’,” he whispered back, placing a kiss on the shell of America’s ear. He earned a soft giggle and a rustle of clothes amid the chaos of the busy airport as the younger man cuddled closer.
“Come on; let’s get your bags and get going; I don’t want the car getting too cold!” said America as he took a gloved hand into his own. Russia tittered in his head as he finally assessed what the younger was wearing; the white jacket America had on made him look like a marshmallow. He never did understand how they came into a relationship with America despising the cold with a heated passion, but he never did want to question Fate.
As locks of blond shifted, America glanced backwards with warm sky eyes. “I’ve got some awesome ideas for us while you’re here, so we need to leave, pronto!” Russia found that his only response could be a grin and a nod as he was led to the baggage claim area.
Once they grabbed his bag and cleared through security (which Russia was going to eventually complain about-he believed that as a country, he should get special privileges), Russia found himself in America’s car on I-495. The scenery, coated with snow, sped by the red Ford as America jabbered away about his new ideas for the next conference, about the gossip from Capitol Hill, and his new pranks on England. These things that America spoke excitedly of Russia found he could have cared less about. Scandals made great stories for the Washington Post’s front page, but the Russian cared more about the week ahead. He cared more about the jokes they would make, the stories they would retell, the kisses they would share, and the bed they would occupy together.
As America went on, one hand firmly set on the steering wheel, the other laid in Russia’s grasp. Russia smiled, and never once spoke.
However, when the prospect of a ‘date at home’ for the night came up, Russia perked up and gave his words of agreement. They could stay at America’s house, they could go to a museum, they could go to a restaurant, or they could go to the moon; Russia did not care. As long as America was there with him, Russia would not argue. He had suffered through the horribly cold years of not having America at his side. It would be a mistake he would try never to repeat.
While the larger nation enjoyed the privacy of the car ride, it was only a matter of time before America took the exit, turned onto a road, then another, and then, finally, steered into a driveway. Tilting forward, Russia saw the house he knew almost as well as his own. So well, in fact, he knew where America hid the key to his storage room. While his lover grumbled beside him, slipping on his gloves and savoring the car’s heater before turning the key, the elder took note of how cozy the house seemed with the snow-laden roofs and trees.
Something out of a Christmas card, he presumed, or maybe it was nothing more than a picture of a home.
America’s whining about the winter cold tore Russia of his thoughts. He let his vision settle on the pitiful sight of the superpower counting ‘one, two, three’ before he thrust the driver door open and stepped out into the cold with an ‘oh, God, it’s freezing!’ Shaking his head with laughter on his tongue, Russia opened his own door, making his way to the trunk to grab his bags. He never packed much; some of his belongings were here already anyway.
“Hurry up!” whimpered America as he huddled closer to the taller man. “I’m freakin’ cold, and it’s warm inside, and… it’s cold! Friggin’ cold! And I know you live in, like, cold, but, dammit, and I hate the cold!” Rolling his wisteria eyes, Russia paid no mind. He was sure that the smirk stretching his mouth revealed his thoughts since he heard the impatient stomp of a boot on the pavement.
“Russia--!”
Abruptly, Russia leaned over to kiss America’s demand away, his tongue brushing against the other’s in a languid caress before pulling away. The other nation seemed stunned, and Russia presumed that his plan was a success before he slung a bag onto his shoulder and took one of those trembling hands into his own. “I am ready, moĭ solnyshko,” he insisted, waiting for the younger to gather his shaken bearings. It only took a short moment before a faint blush painted across pale cheeks, and only another before America was dragging him up the front steps. There was a tinkling of fumbling keys, strung along with curses spilling from his lover’s lips, but soon the door was open and Russia stepped across the threshold.
America’s home never failed to fill Russia with apple-cinnamon warmth that pooled in his chest before dripping slowly throughout the rest of his body. Despite the winter conditions, the cold nation knew that as long as he could nestle himself inside this cozy abode that he would be happy and comfortable. The knowledge that America would be snuggled up to his side was also something to find contentment in.
Slipping off his shoes and overcoat, Russia began to walk to America’s bedroom. He heard the golden blond mutter something about fixing coffee or hot chocolate, but he was left alone in the den regardless. With each step, Russia counted, making sure that everything was still the same since his last visit. Nothing had been moved, aside from the few objects and rugs that had been shifted during cleaning. A smile stretched across Russia’s lips; he was sure that dusting and sweeping had been a last-minute deal.
After making his way upstairs and into America’s room, he stopped, his wisteria gaze flitting from the bed to the dresser to the closet door (which was open, unsurprisingly). Feeling the stress of his plane ride finally permeating his mind, he let his bags fall carelessly to the floor before moving to the bed to lie across the length of it. Russia breathed in deeply, smelling sunshine, dust, and warm apples.
He nuzzled his body farther into the bed, his eyelids drooping as his body basked in exhaustion. For as long as he had been alive and using planes to get to his destination, Russia could not get over the strain of flight easily. America, however, seemed to thrive from it, as if being able to be one with the sky and clouds fueled a sense of youth in him that Russia lacked.
A slurred chuckle escaped his throat. He was getting old.
Sliding his eyelids shut, he listened. He heard muted bangs and clinks from the kitchen. He heard the house settle. He heard the wind wisp against the limbs of sleeping branches. He heard the world stop. He breathes in again. The warmth was still present.
The sounds from the kitchen stopped abruptly, but the air in the house was not still as he hears footsteps make their way to the bedroom. He must have stayed too long away as the floorboards creak and groan under the younger’s weight until the superpower is standing in the door way with two cups of hot cocoa. “I figured you wanted a nap, but you want some hot chocolate first?”
Smiling, Russia (reluctantly) sat up, and patted the spot next to him. “Da,” he began, pausing for a moment to yawn lowly, “I would like some. The drinks of the plane were… less than enjoyable.” America’s eyes rolled and he handed over a red mug to the other man once he was sitting on the bed. “Why didn’t you just ask for alcohol? Which, I didn’t spike your chocolate. I know better.”
“You have never put alcohol in my drinks,” Russia chuckled before sipping the warm liquid. The heat lulled him farther into a relaxed state, and he couldn’t help but feel heavier than before. He pondered briefly if America would add some kind of chemical to the air or in the drink that profoundly increased his need for sleep, but then he reminded himself that there was no longer a Cold War separating them from each other. He grimaced slightly; he swore the moment that America and he rekindled their lost relationship that he would not think about that time. It was true that his daily routine always had some semblance of influence from the tense era, but that did not mean he enjoyed it. He was sure that if he asked America, the superpower would agree that their decisions and actions during those times were not the brightest and most diplomatic.
Russia needed the assurance of touch to forget the hate they once shared, so he wrapped an arm around his lover, pressing his nose to smell the apples and dust. The scent swept through the crises and tensions like a clean gust, and he shudders, pressing closer to America. A chuckle broke through his concentration to forget, and Russia felt America snuggle further into his one-armed embrace. For America to stay silent as long as he had, Russia wondered if his lover was trying to forget, too.
--
(Part II)
Author: Me
Rating: PG-13/light R
Word Count: app. 8,000 (with notes)
Warning: Enough fluff to rot your teeth and bones, a little bit of Cold War angst, and possible OoC situations, America being deep, self-beta’d.
Summary: Still in the slump of the recession, America proposes a ‘stay-at-home’ date. Russia whole-heartedly agrees, but that doesn’t mean that their time together doesn’t go on without a hitch.
A/N: Spring exchange fic for batneko. The prompt chosen was fluff and nonsense. I’m not sure if I added enough nonsense (or fluff, for that matter), but I hope you like it! :)
--
When Russia arrived in the IAD terminal earlier that day, America met him, sunshine grin widening as sky blue eyes softened with tenderness. Russia smiled back, repressing the urge to drop his carry-on bag to gather the youth into his arms. It had been months since they had been able to see each other in person, and Russia had been feeling the ever-increasing strain of their long-distance relationship with each year they enjoyed together.
He wondered, as he bent down to kiss America’s soft cheek, if he was getting old. Or, maybe, America’s youth was rubbing off on him. He didn’t know which, but neither possibility mattered; what mattered was that they had a week together (a whole week, he thought excitedly), and they would make each moment count--as always.
“I missed you,” whispered the blond as he leaned up to wrap his arms around broad shoulders. Russia, feeling his face flush with contentment, took his lover into a loose embrace. “I have missed you also, lyubov’,” he whispered back, placing a kiss on the shell of America’s ear. He earned a soft giggle and a rustle of clothes amid the chaos of the busy airport as the younger man cuddled closer.
“Come on; let’s get your bags and get going; I don’t want the car getting too cold!” said America as he took a gloved hand into his own. Russia tittered in his head as he finally assessed what the younger was wearing; the white jacket America had on made him look like a marshmallow. He never did understand how they came into a relationship with America despising the cold with a heated passion, but he never did want to question Fate.
As locks of blond shifted, America glanced backwards with warm sky eyes. “I’ve got some awesome ideas for us while you’re here, so we need to leave, pronto!” Russia found that his only response could be a grin and a nod as he was led to the baggage claim area.
Once they grabbed his bag and cleared through security (which Russia was going to eventually complain about-he believed that as a country, he should get special privileges), Russia found himself in America’s car on I-495. The scenery, coated with snow, sped by the red Ford as America jabbered away about his new ideas for the next conference, about the gossip from Capitol Hill, and his new pranks on England. These things that America spoke excitedly of Russia found he could have cared less about. Scandals made great stories for the Washington Post’s front page, but the Russian cared more about the week ahead. He cared more about the jokes they would make, the stories they would retell, the kisses they would share, and the bed they would occupy together.
As America went on, one hand firmly set on the steering wheel, the other laid in Russia’s grasp. Russia smiled, and never once spoke.
However, when the prospect of a ‘date at home’ for the night came up, Russia perked up and gave his words of agreement. They could stay at America’s house, they could go to a museum, they could go to a restaurant, or they could go to the moon; Russia did not care. As long as America was there with him, Russia would not argue. He had suffered through the horribly cold years of not having America at his side. It would be a mistake he would try never to repeat.
While the larger nation enjoyed the privacy of the car ride, it was only a matter of time before America took the exit, turned onto a road, then another, and then, finally, steered into a driveway. Tilting forward, Russia saw the house he knew almost as well as his own. So well, in fact, he knew where America hid the key to his storage room. While his lover grumbled beside him, slipping on his gloves and savoring the car’s heater before turning the key, the elder took note of how cozy the house seemed with the snow-laden roofs and trees.
Something out of a Christmas card, he presumed, or maybe it was nothing more than a picture of a home.
America’s whining about the winter cold tore Russia of his thoughts. He let his vision settle on the pitiful sight of the superpower counting ‘one, two, three’ before he thrust the driver door open and stepped out into the cold with an ‘oh, God, it’s freezing!’ Shaking his head with laughter on his tongue, Russia opened his own door, making his way to the trunk to grab his bags. He never packed much; some of his belongings were here already anyway.
“Hurry up!” whimpered America as he huddled closer to the taller man. “I’m freakin’ cold, and it’s warm inside, and… it’s cold! Friggin’ cold! And I know you live in, like, cold, but, dammit, and I hate the cold!” Rolling his wisteria eyes, Russia paid no mind. He was sure that the smirk stretching his mouth revealed his thoughts since he heard the impatient stomp of a boot on the pavement.
“Russia--!”
Abruptly, Russia leaned over to kiss America’s demand away, his tongue brushing against the other’s in a languid caress before pulling away. The other nation seemed stunned, and Russia presumed that his plan was a success before he slung a bag onto his shoulder and took one of those trembling hands into his own. “I am ready, moĭ solnyshko,” he insisted, waiting for the younger to gather his shaken bearings. It only took a short moment before a faint blush painted across pale cheeks, and only another before America was dragging him up the front steps. There was a tinkling of fumbling keys, strung along with curses spilling from his lover’s lips, but soon the door was open and Russia stepped across the threshold.
America’s home never failed to fill Russia with apple-cinnamon warmth that pooled in his chest before dripping slowly throughout the rest of his body. Despite the winter conditions, the cold nation knew that as long as he could nestle himself inside this cozy abode that he would be happy and comfortable. The knowledge that America would be snuggled up to his side was also something to find contentment in.
Slipping off his shoes and overcoat, Russia began to walk to America’s bedroom. He heard the golden blond mutter something about fixing coffee or hot chocolate, but he was left alone in the den regardless. With each step, Russia counted, making sure that everything was still the same since his last visit. Nothing had been moved, aside from the few objects and rugs that had been shifted during cleaning. A smile stretched across Russia’s lips; he was sure that dusting and sweeping had been a last-minute deal.
After making his way upstairs and into America’s room, he stopped, his wisteria gaze flitting from the bed to the dresser to the closet door (which was open, unsurprisingly). Feeling the stress of his plane ride finally permeating his mind, he let his bags fall carelessly to the floor before moving to the bed to lie across the length of it. Russia breathed in deeply, smelling sunshine, dust, and warm apples.
He nuzzled his body farther into the bed, his eyelids drooping as his body basked in exhaustion. For as long as he had been alive and using planes to get to his destination, Russia could not get over the strain of flight easily. America, however, seemed to thrive from it, as if being able to be one with the sky and clouds fueled a sense of youth in him that Russia lacked.
A slurred chuckle escaped his throat. He was getting old.
Sliding his eyelids shut, he listened. He heard muted bangs and clinks from the kitchen. He heard the house settle. He heard the wind wisp against the limbs of sleeping branches. He heard the world stop. He breathes in again. The warmth was still present.
The sounds from the kitchen stopped abruptly, but the air in the house was not still as he hears footsteps make their way to the bedroom. He must have stayed too long away as the floorboards creak and groan under the younger’s weight until the superpower is standing in the door way with two cups of hot cocoa. “I figured you wanted a nap, but you want some hot chocolate first?”
Smiling, Russia (reluctantly) sat up, and patted the spot next to him. “Da,” he began, pausing for a moment to yawn lowly, “I would like some. The drinks of the plane were… less than enjoyable.” America’s eyes rolled and he handed over a red mug to the other man once he was sitting on the bed. “Why didn’t you just ask for alcohol? Which, I didn’t spike your chocolate. I know better.”
“You have never put alcohol in my drinks,” Russia chuckled before sipping the warm liquid. The heat lulled him farther into a relaxed state, and he couldn’t help but feel heavier than before. He pondered briefly if America would add some kind of chemical to the air or in the drink that profoundly increased his need for sleep, but then he reminded himself that there was no longer a Cold War separating them from each other. He grimaced slightly; he swore the moment that America and he rekindled their lost relationship that he would not think about that time. It was true that his daily routine always had some semblance of influence from the tense era, but that did not mean he enjoyed it. He was sure that if he asked America, the superpower would agree that their decisions and actions during those times were not the brightest and most diplomatic.
Russia needed the assurance of touch to forget the hate they once shared, so he wrapped an arm around his lover, pressing his nose to smell the apples and dust. The scent swept through the crises and tensions like a clean gust, and he shudders, pressing closer to America. A chuckle broke through his concentration to forget, and Russia felt America snuggle further into his one-armed embrace. For America to stay silent as long as he had, Russia wondered if his lover was trying to forget, too.
--
(Part II)