Famous Last Words [1/2]
Title: Famous Last Words [1/2]
Summary: In which a slip of the tongue gives Ivan access to someone for whom he never thought he could ask.
Pairing: Russia/Canada
Rating: M for Most Definitely Not Worksafe!
Disclaimer: I don't own it. (And tbh I don't think the actual nation of Russia thinks of Canada like this. But that's what fandom is for, right? right? :D)
.:.
It's true, Russia thinks, that America was not his first choice. Not even his third choice.
Actually, not even his tenth.
Actually, Russia would probably have rather slept with France again, and taken the degrading feeling of the morning after, rather than sleep with America.
It's not that America is particularly unattractive. He can't say that (although he has before, and to America's face, but that was to deliberately upset him). More simply, he would never have assumed that America, who had approached him earlier today and made his offer very clearly and brazenly, had ever harboured any sort of feeling for him beyond hatred. After all, Russia feels little more than annoyance and a mild ire when he thinks about his one time ally and former enemy, which he does, albeit seldomly.
But beggars can't be choosers. And Russia should be happy to take what he can get, when he can get it.
Besides, he reflects, as a topless America gnaws enthusiastically on his earlobe, just keeping on this side of painful, there are some benefits. Certainly. He notices now how easily the curve of America's rear fits in his palm, how strained the muscles in his thighs are, seen clearly through the denim of America's jeans. He watches how America's hair falls on the back of his neck, feels how soft and smooth the skin is there.
Though he's never touched him before now, these are familiar shapes, familiar colours, with subtle differences. Canada's hair is wavier, he thinks, and curls gracefully on his nape. Maybe a shade lighter. But he is probably very soft and warm there, and so Russia cups America's neck and exhales happily. Canada's jawline is a little less strong, but that is easy enough to ignore: Russia merely shuts his eyes.
Canada's ass - oh, he has memorised this curve completely, it's the kind of thing poets should write about - is slightly different. It comes from a lot of time spent skating - on canals, on the hockey rink, doing lazy single axels. He wouldn't wear pants that fit him so closely, Russia thinks, that's not his style, nor is it his personality. But Russia wouldn't really mind if he did. And his thighs, he's seen these before, covered up in padding and the hem of a long hockey jersey - well, they're pretty much exactly like this. The lust he feels at that thought has him gripping the thighs straddling his hips now with a distinct possession.
Because in Russia's mind, Canada is already his. Canada has beautiful smooth skin at the small of his back so it seems like a decent idea to rest his big, awkward, clumsy hands there. Canada is light and graceful, so Russia feels like he fits for once. And when he does it, Canada moans - loudly (too loudly), more vocal than Russia's ever heard him except maybe at hockey games - and grinds his erection almost helplessly into Russia's hips.
Ah, thinks Russia, now there's a good use for his hands, and he switches to bring his right to between Canada's legs, skimming the skin lightly as he goes, hoping the motion is half as graceful as his North American counterpart is. Canada moves his mouth over his cheek, over his lips, and the way they finally fit together is blissful. Blissful, but a bit foreign - Canada's lips are normally thicker and plumper than these, so Russia bites down on the lower, to swell it a bit.
"Ahn," Canada moans, and his grip around Russia's shoulders grows tighter, more desperate. The way he holds onto Russia is so wonderfully needy and incredibly erotic. Very suddenly, he wants more, he wants closer than his hand on Canada's rough jeans - after all, Canada surely can't feel much through the thick material, and Ivan would really, really like him to feel good, feel half of what he himself feels now.
"Canada," he breathes in between kisses, wishing desperately he knew the other's name, the one he takes to shield his identity, the one that would let Ivan think this this is more than just two countries having diplomatic relations but actually them, because god, Ivan's wanted him for so long -
"Wait, what?" Canada pulls back.
Ivan blinks, and stills his hand on - oh, it's America. America's face, in shock. America's erection, in his grasp.
Of course.
America somehow recovers first. He closes his mouth with a sharp snap and a click at his jaw, and looks a little upset. "Get your hands off me," he says, pushing Russia away, and he jumps up off Russia's lap, off the bed where Russia is sitting.
They don't speak. America gathers his shirt, puts it on inside out by accident, and rushes out of the room, his face red. Russia, for his part, is still somewhat in shock. He takes a minute to think about this, while reclined on the bed and propped up on his elbows.
Well that was smooth, he concludes sarcastically, but really, there is no true harm done. It's not like America will start World War III over this. Maybe he will be a bit upset - Russia recalls America confessing in a rushed voice that he'd always secretly wanted this, because Russia was the enemy, the Big Bad, and all heroes should have their villains with whom they have ridiculously hot sexy chemistry. Russia doesn't recall any significant profession of love.
But it would have been nice to get some for a change, he thinks, especially since actually having sex with Canada would never happen. Canada probably has fifteen lovers already - he has always been disturbingly close with the Netherlands, and he and India play their little business games regularly (besides, India's way hotter than he is). His own sister sees him more often than Russia does, though Russia feels like he'd die a slow, humiliating death if it were true that Ukraine and Canada - oh the devil take him, it's best not to think about that.
What do Canada and Russia have in common, really? Hockey? Being Northern? That's pathetic. Might as well apply the same argument to, oh, all of Scandinavia.
On top of it all, his stupid erection refuses to fade for at least ten minutes. Delightful.
.:.
Three months later, while at a meeting hosted by France, he gets a call from America. America, who hasn't contacted him since That Day, and who has refused to look even remotely his way during all their meetings (making their one-on-one sessions particularly awkward but that doesn't really matter, and anyway, Russia refuses to apologise).
"Okay so," America says when he picks up the phone, "I've done a lot of thinking about it and I realised it's a bad idea to let this get in the way of our relations." Russia isn't sure what precisely America means by relations but there isn't any time to ask before America soldiers on. "Guess I probably shouldn't have just laid low for about, like, three months there but whatever." That's probably American for 'I'm sorry'. "If you're free tonight, I'm in town and I'll grab us dinner. Meet me at 8 at the Cafe dull a Pay. The afternoon crowd'll have thinned out by then so ask for me at the front desk. See ya." Click.
That quickly, Russia appears to have a date this evening. He's half tempted to call America back and tell him look, you can't talk to me like that, and, what if I had been busy or had other plans already, but the truth of the matter is, beyond drinking alone and doing paperwork, he didn't have a single plan that night. And nobody has asked him to dinner in well over twenty-five years. So he might as well. But America's paying.
The Café de la Paix is a nice place and he doesn't even have to go far, because it's physically connected to the hotel where France has had most of them all put up. So at 8:10, since America deserves to be kept waiting a bit, after three months of impolite silence, Russia takes the elevator down and strolls into the cafe on the ground floor. The waitstaff direct him to an empty table when he mentions Alfred Jones and present him with a menu.
Inside the menu is a small piece of paper, on which Russia expects is the table d'hôte. So he's surprised when he turns it around and finds America's ungainly scribble instead.
Russia -
I thought I'd do something nice for you for a change. You can thank me later. And as much as I'd love some awesome political hate sex, you're just not that bad a guy. Not anymore. So you have my tentative approval assuming you don't screw this up on your own.
But let it be known: one wrong move, I swear to God, I will end you.
Order anything you want, they already have my information.
The message is somewhere between polite and civil, because although America appears to be doing him a favour, he didn't even bother signing it, which tells Russia he's still somewhat angry. It's also unclear what favour America is doing.
That is, until he hears someone quietly clearing his throat. He looks up and his typically resilient poker face shatters.
Canada is in front of him, on the opposite side of the small table, next to the only other chair. "Uh, um. Hello."
Russia's heart begins to pound, his hands grow clammy. He's probably blushing but his cheeks are the only warm part of him; his blood has frozen, and not because it's mid-March.
"Do, do you mind if I sit?"
Canada's quiet, timid voice breaks the spell. "Yes - I mean, no, no I don't mind," Russia says, stumbling over his words, and Canada pulls the chair out. Russia stands to receive his guest - it's polite, yes? - but the movement is jerky and halting and he winds up tipping his own chair over backwards into the table behind them. As he regains the chair's balance and takes his seat, he mumbles an apology to the French couple, who appear only mildly perturbed.
Why do I have to be so ungraceful, he thinks, grumbling. What, I couldn't have represented Russia with a body like Baryshnikov's?
"Um," Canada says, "Alfred told me he'd - he'd be here, b-but I've been waiting, uh, and he didn't show, so ... and then you did."
After some tentative discussion, Russia slowly pieces it all together alone, since it does not appear Canada is aware of what America's done. It appears instead that Canada was pointed to the table by the waitstaff, who had been instructed not to lead him there until Russia was shown to the table first (Russia has to admit, that was a wise move on America's part). It appears that Canada believed this to be a meeting between he and his brother, and that when Russia showed up instead, he had been told by the waitstaff that his brother regretted that he could not make it, but that he hoped Canada would enjoy a meal with a friend sent in his stead.
And - perhaps amazingly - it does not appear Canada is aware of Russia's entirely less than platonic feelings for him. On one hand, cover not blown. On the other, rejection still plausibly imminent.
However, it also appears that dinner was a bad idea, because Canada is a typically silent individual and Russia is still trying to recover some composure. So the silence between them is neither companionable nor pleasant, but stilted and awkward. More than once Russia and Canada begin speaking at the same time and wind up interrupting each other, and then interrupting each other again when they both say, "after you". More than once Russia realises he's staring by Canada's furtive, nervous glance and embarrassed demeanour; then Russia overcompensates by glaring at his scallops in crème sauce, like it's their fault or something.
It isn't helping his case that Canada looks the way he does, his hair combed neatly into place, his shirt pressed, and yes, that colour might wash his skin out and make him look very pale, but it brings out his eyes so nicely. Despite the buttons on the neck being done up too high for Russia's liking, the sleeves are rolled up to reveal graceful wrists and slender forearms. He feels like he's never wanted to touch anything so badly in his life.
But then it gets better, to Russia's utter delight. In a way, they've both been stood up by someone who's footing the bill, so they order a nice wine with dinner without feeling too bad about the price. This is fortunate, Russia reflects, because by the dessert course, they are talking reasonably smoothly.
And in the end, he manages to say (without sounding too weird) what a nice night it has been and that perhaps they should do this again sometime, and Canada smiles beautifully and nods, jostling his pretty blond hair.
.:.
His first mistake is letting Canada call the shots and be the one to call him.
From Russia's point of view, this would be ideal. Not only would it demonstrate some initiative on Canada's part, which Russia thinks could possibly make his heart explode with joy, but it would also alleviate some of the guilt Russia feels on the days that he feels responsible enough for silly things like guilt.
Russia has been ... desirous, so to say, of Canada since he began expanding eastwards and found a land across the great expanse of water. Something had pulled him forwards the day he arrived there, stirring him onwards. Something that he felt had been sleeping within him for ages, from a time when part of what would later become Ivan physically left Russia entirely. From the days when General Winter ruled the Earth. (But that's probably nothing more than an old Slavic fairy tale.)
To press his borders so closely to Canada wasn't inappropriate, it was instinct, and he had been incapable of denying it. He's wanted more ever since.
This is how he has rationalised lusting after Canada's beautiful lithe body, because back then, Canada had been ... very young.
Canada is still very young, and a little too idealistic, and as a much, much older being, Russia should really know better.
Even so, he couldn't stop himself from thinking about him. A long time ago he felt mortified at the event of coming, harder than he ever had before, to the thought of someone so young, his eyes so wide and bright, his hair still sunny blonde.
Russia got over the feeling of mortification quickly. As long as he looks and doesn't touch, right?
Then Canada grew up some more and his feelings only intensified. On the bright side, at least he slept better at night, bringing himself off to someone who appeared of age.
This is where he is now, in his bed, not falling asleep like he should be, with his hand down his pants to try and help him nod off when 3 AM rolls around and he is left still staring up at the ceiling, thinking idly that it needs a new paint job while trying not to think Canada, CanadaCanadaCanada, and failing.
He doesn't know if Canada's a virgin. Probably he isn't, in fact, although in all of Russia's fantasies, he is. The mere thought of anybody touching what he covets so badly is revolting. And yet Canada, in his mind, positions himself over Russia's cock like a professional, his beautiful white thighs straining as he takes it in. Somehow Canada knows no other lover, but does know to angle himself backwards slightly in order for the tip to brush against his prostate.
Ah, but fantasies don't have to make sense.
Russia would keep his legs bent behind Canada's back for him to lean on, and Canada would grip his knees with shaky hands, bracing himself on his descents. Canada doesn't need his hands to touch himself. Russia is more than willing to touch Canada between his legs. In fact, he loves the quiet sound Canada breathily makes when he wraps his hand around him. He can't fit the entire length in one hand - not that he's seen it - partly because hey, second largest by landmass, right? That must count for something! And partly because Russia secretly wouldn't mind being penetrated. If it were anybody else he'd scream bloody murder at the thought of it but oh, he'd do anything for Canada. And somehow, never-been-touched Canada would make it amazing for him.
Who knows how they got to this point, doesn't matter, maybe Russia invited him over for tea, or whatever. In Russia's mind, he's a far better smooth-talker than he is in reality.
Canada's face is glowing with sweat, in the moonlight from the window above Russia's bed. He bites down on his lip when he slams his hips down, faster now, and Russia answers with an upward thrust, seeking to claim. A motion that says, you're mine, and one that replies, da, tvoy, Vanya - oh, yes, yes - he makes sure to imagine Canada coming first, that's gentlemanly. So Canada digs his nails into Russia's knees and arches his back, grinding his erection into Russia's palm. He stops stroking Canada's thigh with his other hand in order to cover the mess and keep things relatively clean, but some escapes as he watches Canada's face, contorted in ecstasy, as he writhes above him - so close, yes - aah -
Anyway, the point is, weeks pass and Canada doesn't call, which means he probably isn't interested, and that is why Russia has elected to spend so many recent nights vodka-wallowing in his stupid, illogical, impossible fantasies.
.:.
His second mistake is not calling America for help. Frankly, he'd rather eat dirt ... unfortunately, he can't deny it, America knows his brother better than Russia does. But hopefully not that much better. If there is any truth to the rumours about precisely how undefended that border is, Russia might have to introduce America to his pipe.
"Allo?"
"What the hell gives, man?"
Luckily for Russia, his second mistake is easily fixed, because America obviously thinks nothing of calling him up.
"What are you talking about, comrade?"
"Don't comrade me, you dickless weasel. What the holy hell is wrong with you? You take him out on a nice date, you wine and dine him, you give him the old hey this has been fun let's do it again sometime, and then you just eff off forever?"
"I do not understand what you mean to imply, America. Be clearer, pozhaluista. What is your problem?"
"My problem, you jackass, is that you're leading my bro on. And I don't like that. I thought you, y'know."
"No, America, I do not know."
"Well, don't you like him? Or what, do you just wanna fuck him the once?"
It's unclear by America's tone of voice alone which card he should play. He's not sure which one would upset America further, nor is he sure whether he'd like to have America upset further. The one card he doesn't want to play is the truth, but ultimately, Russia isn't entirely sure what he wants, either, because he's never considered seriously before the prospect of actually getting it.
"I'm waiting, Russkie."
"Da, well patience is virtue you lack."
"Ugh. If you don't want to admit you just want to sleep with him once to get it out of your system, it's fine, I don't care. We all do this from time to time, so... let's be adults about it, huh? Yeah okay, so I'm his brother, and it's prolly kinda weird to talk to me about this, but remember, I look out for his best interests too. Y'know?"
"Oh? And I am such interests now, is this it?"
"Pfft. Hardly. Bro's upset you've given him the Cuba treatment."
"What is Cuba treatment? Is this where I hide giant ton of nuclear arms at friend's house?"
"That is not even a little bit funny. No, joker, the Cuba treatment is where people tell Canada shit like 'oh hey come on over whenever' and then completely forget about him. Or act surprised when he shows up. Or beat him up when they mistake him for me. So now he just assumes everybody's forgotten about him after he leaves their sight and any offer made is like, null and void. It's pathetic."
"Is kind of sad actually."
"Yeah, s'what I meant. Anyway, if you were serious about getting together with him again? Call him the fuck up, okay? You gotta make the first move with him, you can't be lettin' him do it. Cuz he won't."
"But, I ... I can't -"
"Tchyeah you fuckin' can."
"What does he want? From me, what would he like?"
"It doesn't matter what he really wants."
"Wait, what? Did you not say acting in best interests?"
"Yeah, well ... look. Canada doesn't get a lot of action. I dunno what he's looking for, I don't even know if he's looking at all, but he will probably hand himself over to you, anyway. It doesn't matter if this is a one-night-stand, or you courtin' his shy ass for a year. Just the night will make him happy. So. Call him. The fuck. Up. And do it now."
"But what do I say?"
"Oh for the love of - jesus, Russia, you could say any old thing to him. Hell, you could say nothing to him. Y'know what, that's an even better idea, take him to, like, a movie, where neither of you have to fucking talk, you'll get on great. Kiss him at the end of the night, you'll have him eating out of your hand. Listen. I know you got a pair, and I know you got his number, so put both to good use and just fuckin' call him already. If I don't hear from him in thirty minutes telling me the news I'm gonna blast you one."
And then America hangs up on him without clarifying precisely what is meant by 'blast'.
.:.
Since dinner didn't work so well last time without something to talk about, Russia finds an activity that doesn't require an obligation to fill silence with conversation. But fortunately, there are cheap tickets to the symphony Saturday night. The program is Dvorak and Mendelssohn, who were neither Russian nor Canadian, so it's an even playing field, politically neutral - not like he worries about such things with Canada.
He's almost bought tickets when he realises there's also a hockey game that night. And it's Leopards versus the Knights. Done.
Unfortunately, he forgets to pay particular attention to the teams. This is his third mistake.
The Vityaz Chekhov - the Knights, based in Chekhov, Moskva - are pretty close to his heart, mostly because they're overly violent, especially when it's a home game. The team is almost all Russian with a few Canadians and one Kazakh. The Barys Astana - the Leopards, based in Astana, Kazakhstan - are not his favourite (though they're better to support than the Metallurg Novokuznetsk who are kind of hopeless this year). That team is mostly made of Kazakhs, with five very good Canadian players - in truth, he's not sure how the KHL managed to steal them away - and a smattering of other nationalities (Czech, Swedish, even two American players, many fewer Russians).
Russia had formerly been in an excellent mood, because Canada had seemed so delighted on the phone when he asked him to the game, and when he'd gone to pick him up from the airport, his heart sort of gave a funny little jolt as they locked eyes from across the room at the arrivals pickup and Canada grinned widely.
But then the hockey game starts and Canada decides to root for the Leopards. When he mentions their Canadian players with glowing, excited eyes, Russia blurts out, "It is good thing you're cute, because bad choice, comrade," without realising what he's said. That's okay though, because Canada doesn't notice the slip. Unfortunately, the reason Canada doesn't notice is because he is too busy flipping his shit in Russia's face.
Amazingly, it doesn't come to blows between them, but it does get close at a few points. Words are said. Glares are exchanged. The people sitting in the row in front of them turn around to shame them into shutting up, and when that doesn't work, a particularly angry Barys supporter in the row behind them screams for silence. So Canada and Russia spend the better part of the second period Not Talking To Each Other.
Russia isn't sure what Canada is thinking but he must not be pleased. Well that's just fine for him, he thinks petulantly, because neither is Russia! There were ... parallels, that could be drawn between Canada and Lithuania. Both shy and quiet, both very submissive. Both beautiful and delicate. He liked all of that in a lover. He also liked willingness but it was usually on his part to bewilling to give up that criterion. So Russia had this image of perfect, meek, pretty Canada that was not simply broken but rather entirely decimated by cursing, spitting, aggressive Canada.
Russia feels a little bit betrayed.
Then the third period starts, and Canada breaks the silence to ask, "What the hell? Five forwards? Are, are they insane?"
Russia chuckles. "Ah, yes! Is old Russian play. Called 'no, really, I swear, we're just here to play hockey'." Canada raises an eyebrow and Russia grins. "I assure you, there will not be much hockey playing."
Sure enough, the five Vityaz players wait until a split second after the puck drops to unleash battle fury hell that involves seriously dirty tricks. Barys pulls their goalie to put on another forward as retaliation. Blood is spilled. Teeth are knocked out. Someone gets taken off the ice unconscious. And so, with a filthy but thoroughly entertaining line brawl, Canada and Russia forget that they're angry at each other.
Besides, aggressive Canada has his advantages, thinks Russia, contemplating with vast amusement the boy next to him who is still very pretty and delicate despite the bloodthirsty look in his eyes.
Canada's hotel is nearby the arena, so Russia walks him back after the game.
"Are you staying long in Moskve?" Russia asks him.
"Um, no," Canada says, "uh, only for another two days actually."
Then, he came all the way here for hockey. Russia is more than a little flattered, but too flustered to say anything but, "oh, I see" in reply, which makes him feel silly. Maybe Canada is simply that dedicated to the game. That's probably it.
The five minutes walk is mostly quiet, with Russia pointing out a few interesting things about the city. But the city is a city is a city. He's certain Canada's got cities too. This part of it isn't one of the more interesting, antique parts, either. Although... that's probably for the better, so that he doesn't draw any more attention to how much older he is.
"Well, um, this... is me," Canada murmurs, pointing to the hotel. "Thanks for the game, it was fun."
"Da, anytime," Russia replies.
"Um."
"Tak da."
They both attempt saying something more relevant at the same time, and interrupt each other. Then they both interrupt each other again with 'no, after you'. Every time this happens Russia feels like he should just not bother speaking, ever.
"There is film playing tomorrow night, if you are interested," he offers. "If you are not busy. If you would like." He'll have to scout the theatres to see which ones have subtitles.
Suddenly, Canada blushes, and smiles very, very widely. "O-oh," he replies, "oh, Russia. Um. I- um, I see. I'd, uh, yeah. I'd like that a lot."
He must really like movies. Well! No pressure on Russia to pick a good one or anything. But he manages to keep the grumbling to a minimum as he affirms, if a bit stiffly, "I will pick you up out front at six," and Canada nods, looking a little less nervous.
Unasked for, America's advice - kiss him at the end of the night - floats back to the forefront of his mind.
But while he can't move his feet away, he absolutely cannot do that.
It's different, with a G8 country. A G8 country whose brother is America, whose closest allies are extremely powerful, and who despite being very quiet manages to get along with everybody and so has a slew of people who would back him up. Russia, meanwhile, has nobody. So he can't simply take what he wants, like he could with Lithuania. (Maybe that's for the better, because Toris didn't seem to like that much.)
But he does want. He wants so badly. It's the want that has frozen his feet where they stand. It's the want that makes him lean down, slowly enough that Canada can move away if he doesn't like it. With slight jerking motions, Russia advances slowly, and awkwardly kisses him on the cheek. A compromise between what he can't do but feels he must.
Instantly he's glad he did it. Canada's skin is soft and cool on his lips, and he smells like plain soap.
To his shock, Canada lets him back up only a bit before he leans in himself and presses their lips together. It's a chaste kiss, as far as kisses go, but no less earth-shaking. Russia closes his eyes briefly, giving in to the heady, dizzying sensation that accompanies an inability to breathe or control his heart's wild palpitations.
He recognises the feel of Canada's lips as being only peripherally like America's. The differences are small but numerous.
"See you tomorrow," Canada whispers as they part, and Russia nods shakily.
.:.
Part 2, because this was too large for one post
Summary: In which a slip of the tongue gives Ivan access to someone for whom he never thought he could ask.
Pairing: Russia/Canada
Rating: M for Most Definitely Not Worksafe!
Disclaimer: I don't own it. (And tbh I don't think the actual nation of Russia thinks of Canada like this. But that's what fandom is for, right? right? :D)
.:.
It's true, Russia thinks, that America was not his first choice. Not even his third choice.
Actually, not even his tenth.
Actually, Russia would probably have rather slept with France again, and taken the degrading feeling of the morning after, rather than sleep with America.
It's not that America is particularly unattractive. He can't say that (although he has before, and to America's face, but that was to deliberately upset him). More simply, he would never have assumed that America, who had approached him earlier today and made his offer very clearly and brazenly, had ever harboured any sort of feeling for him beyond hatred. After all, Russia feels little more than annoyance and a mild ire when he thinks about his one time ally and former enemy, which he does, albeit seldomly.
But beggars can't be choosers. And Russia should be happy to take what he can get, when he can get it.
Besides, he reflects, as a topless America gnaws enthusiastically on his earlobe, just keeping on this side of painful, there are some benefits. Certainly. He notices now how easily the curve of America's rear fits in his palm, how strained the muscles in his thighs are, seen clearly through the denim of America's jeans. He watches how America's hair falls on the back of his neck, feels how soft and smooth the skin is there.
Though he's never touched him before now, these are familiar shapes, familiar colours, with subtle differences. Canada's hair is wavier, he thinks, and curls gracefully on his nape. Maybe a shade lighter. But he is probably very soft and warm there, and so Russia cups America's neck and exhales happily. Canada's jawline is a little less strong, but that is easy enough to ignore: Russia merely shuts his eyes.
Canada's ass - oh, he has memorised this curve completely, it's the kind of thing poets should write about - is slightly different. It comes from a lot of time spent skating - on canals, on the hockey rink, doing lazy single axels. He wouldn't wear pants that fit him so closely, Russia thinks, that's not his style, nor is it his personality. But Russia wouldn't really mind if he did. And his thighs, he's seen these before, covered up in padding and the hem of a long hockey jersey - well, they're pretty much exactly like this. The lust he feels at that thought has him gripping the thighs straddling his hips now with a distinct possession.
Because in Russia's mind, Canada is already his. Canada has beautiful smooth skin at the small of his back so it seems like a decent idea to rest his big, awkward, clumsy hands there. Canada is light and graceful, so Russia feels like he fits for once. And when he does it, Canada moans - loudly (too loudly), more vocal than Russia's ever heard him except maybe at hockey games - and grinds his erection almost helplessly into Russia's hips.
Ah, thinks Russia, now there's a good use for his hands, and he switches to bring his right to between Canada's legs, skimming the skin lightly as he goes, hoping the motion is half as graceful as his North American counterpart is. Canada moves his mouth over his cheek, over his lips, and the way they finally fit together is blissful. Blissful, but a bit foreign - Canada's lips are normally thicker and plumper than these, so Russia bites down on the lower, to swell it a bit.
"Ahn," Canada moans, and his grip around Russia's shoulders grows tighter, more desperate. The way he holds onto Russia is so wonderfully needy and incredibly erotic. Very suddenly, he wants more, he wants closer than his hand on Canada's rough jeans - after all, Canada surely can't feel much through the thick material, and Ivan would really, really like him to feel good, feel half of what he himself feels now.
"Canada," he breathes in between kisses, wishing desperately he knew the other's name, the one he takes to shield his identity, the one that would let Ivan think this this is more than just two countries having diplomatic relations but actually them, because god, Ivan's wanted him for so long -
"Wait, what?" Canada pulls back.
Ivan blinks, and stills his hand on - oh, it's America. America's face, in shock. America's erection, in his grasp.
Of course.
America somehow recovers first. He closes his mouth with a sharp snap and a click at his jaw, and looks a little upset. "Get your hands off me," he says, pushing Russia away, and he jumps up off Russia's lap, off the bed where Russia is sitting.
They don't speak. America gathers his shirt, puts it on inside out by accident, and rushes out of the room, his face red. Russia, for his part, is still somewhat in shock. He takes a minute to think about this, while reclined on the bed and propped up on his elbows.
Well that was smooth, he concludes sarcastically, but really, there is no true harm done. It's not like America will start World War III over this. Maybe he will be a bit upset - Russia recalls America confessing in a rushed voice that he'd always secretly wanted this, because Russia was the enemy, the Big Bad, and all heroes should have their villains with whom they have ridiculously hot sexy chemistry. Russia doesn't recall any significant profession of love.
But it would have been nice to get some for a change, he thinks, especially since actually having sex with Canada would never happen. Canada probably has fifteen lovers already - he has always been disturbingly close with the Netherlands, and he and India play their little business games regularly (besides, India's way hotter than he is). His own sister sees him more often than Russia does, though Russia feels like he'd die a slow, humiliating death if it were true that Ukraine and Canada - oh the devil take him, it's best not to think about that.
What do Canada and Russia have in common, really? Hockey? Being Northern? That's pathetic. Might as well apply the same argument to, oh, all of Scandinavia.
On top of it all, his stupid erection refuses to fade for at least ten minutes. Delightful.
.:.
Three months later, while at a meeting hosted by France, he gets a call from America. America, who hasn't contacted him since That Day, and who has refused to look even remotely his way during all their meetings (making their one-on-one sessions particularly awkward but that doesn't really matter, and anyway, Russia refuses to apologise).
"Okay so," America says when he picks up the phone, "I've done a lot of thinking about it and I realised it's a bad idea to let this get in the way of our relations." Russia isn't sure what precisely America means by relations but there isn't any time to ask before America soldiers on. "Guess I probably shouldn't have just laid low for about, like, three months there but whatever." That's probably American for 'I'm sorry'. "If you're free tonight, I'm in town and I'll grab us dinner. Meet me at 8 at the Cafe dull a Pay. The afternoon crowd'll have thinned out by then so ask for me at the front desk. See ya." Click.
That quickly, Russia appears to have a date this evening. He's half tempted to call America back and tell him look, you can't talk to me like that, and, what if I had been busy or had other plans already, but the truth of the matter is, beyond drinking alone and doing paperwork, he didn't have a single plan that night. And nobody has asked him to dinner in well over twenty-five years. So he might as well. But America's paying.
The Café de la Paix is a nice place and he doesn't even have to go far, because it's physically connected to the hotel where France has had most of them all put up. So at 8:10, since America deserves to be kept waiting a bit, after three months of impolite silence, Russia takes the elevator down and strolls into the cafe on the ground floor. The waitstaff direct him to an empty table when he mentions Alfred Jones and present him with a menu.
Inside the menu is a small piece of paper, on which Russia expects is the table d'hôte. So he's surprised when he turns it around and finds America's ungainly scribble instead.
Russia -
I thought I'd do something nice for you for a change. You can thank me later. And as much as I'd love some awesome political hate sex, you're just not that bad a guy. Not anymore. So you have my tentative approval assuming you don't screw this up on your own.
But let it be known: one wrong move, I swear to God, I will end you.
Order anything you want, they already have my information.
The message is somewhere between polite and civil, because although America appears to be doing him a favour, he didn't even bother signing it, which tells Russia he's still somewhat angry. It's also unclear what favour America is doing.
That is, until he hears someone quietly clearing his throat. He looks up and his typically resilient poker face shatters.
Canada is in front of him, on the opposite side of the small table, next to the only other chair. "Uh, um. Hello."
Russia's heart begins to pound, his hands grow clammy. He's probably blushing but his cheeks are the only warm part of him; his blood has frozen, and not because it's mid-March.
"Do, do you mind if I sit?"
Canada's quiet, timid voice breaks the spell. "Yes - I mean, no, no I don't mind," Russia says, stumbling over his words, and Canada pulls the chair out. Russia stands to receive his guest - it's polite, yes? - but the movement is jerky and halting and he winds up tipping his own chair over backwards into the table behind them. As he regains the chair's balance and takes his seat, he mumbles an apology to the French couple, who appear only mildly perturbed.
Why do I have to be so ungraceful, he thinks, grumbling. What, I couldn't have represented Russia with a body like Baryshnikov's?
"Um," Canada says, "Alfred told me he'd - he'd be here, b-but I've been waiting, uh, and he didn't show, so ... and then you did."
After some tentative discussion, Russia slowly pieces it all together alone, since it does not appear Canada is aware of what America's done. It appears instead that Canada was pointed to the table by the waitstaff, who had been instructed not to lead him there until Russia was shown to the table first (Russia has to admit, that was a wise move on America's part). It appears that Canada believed this to be a meeting between he and his brother, and that when Russia showed up instead, he had been told by the waitstaff that his brother regretted that he could not make it, but that he hoped Canada would enjoy a meal with a friend sent in his stead.
And - perhaps amazingly - it does not appear Canada is aware of Russia's entirely less than platonic feelings for him. On one hand, cover not blown. On the other, rejection still plausibly imminent.
However, it also appears that dinner was a bad idea, because Canada is a typically silent individual and Russia is still trying to recover some composure. So the silence between them is neither companionable nor pleasant, but stilted and awkward. More than once Russia and Canada begin speaking at the same time and wind up interrupting each other, and then interrupting each other again when they both say, "after you". More than once Russia realises he's staring by Canada's furtive, nervous glance and embarrassed demeanour; then Russia overcompensates by glaring at his scallops in crème sauce, like it's their fault or something.
It isn't helping his case that Canada looks the way he does, his hair combed neatly into place, his shirt pressed, and yes, that colour might wash his skin out and make him look very pale, but it brings out his eyes so nicely. Despite the buttons on the neck being done up too high for Russia's liking, the sleeves are rolled up to reveal graceful wrists and slender forearms. He feels like he's never wanted to touch anything so badly in his life.
But then it gets better, to Russia's utter delight. In a way, they've both been stood up by someone who's footing the bill, so they order a nice wine with dinner without feeling too bad about the price. This is fortunate, Russia reflects, because by the dessert course, they are talking reasonably smoothly.
And in the end, he manages to say (without sounding too weird) what a nice night it has been and that perhaps they should do this again sometime, and Canada smiles beautifully and nods, jostling his pretty blond hair.
.:.
His first mistake is letting Canada call the shots and be the one to call him.
From Russia's point of view, this would be ideal. Not only would it demonstrate some initiative on Canada's part, which Russia thinks could possibly make his heart explode with joy, but it would also alleviate some of the guilt Russia feels on the days that he feels responsible enough for silly things like guilt.
Russia has been ... desirous, so to say, of Canada since he began expanding eastwards and found a land across the great expanse of water. Something had pulled him forwards the day he arrived there, stirring him onwards. Something that he felt had been sleeping within him for ages, from a time when part of what would later become Ivan physically left Russia entirely. From the days when General Winter ruled the Earth. (But that's probably nothing more than an old Slavic fairy tale.)
To press his borders so closely to Canada wasn't inappropriate, it was instinct, and he had been incapable of denying it. He's wanted more ever since.
This is how he has rationalised lusting after Canada's beautiful lithe body, because back then, Canada had been ... very young.
Canada is still very young, and a little too idealistic, and as a much, much older being, Russia should really know better.
Even so, he couldn't stop himself from thinking about him. A long time ago he felt mortified at the event of coming, harder than he ever had before, to the thought of someone so young, his eyes so wide and bright, his hair still sunny blonde.
Russia got over the feeling of mortification quickly. As long as he looks and doesn't touch, right?
Then Canada grew up some more and his feelings only intensified. On the bright side, at least he slept better at night, bringing himself off to someone who appeared of age.
This is where he is now, in his bed, not falling asleep like he should be, with his hand down his pants to try and help him nod off when 3 AM rolls around and he is left still staring up at the ceiling, thinking idly that it needs a new paint job while trying not to think Canada, CanadaCanadaCanada, and failing.
He doesn't know if Canada's a virgin. Probably he isn't, in fact, although in all of Russia's fantasies, he is. The mere thought of anybody touching what he covets so badly is revolting. And yet Canada, in his mind, positions himself over Russia's cock like a professional, his beautiful white thighs straining as he takes it in. Somehow Canada knows no other lover, but does know to angle himself backwards slightly in order for the tip to brush against his prostate.
Ah, but fantasies don't have to make sense.
Russia would keep his legs bent behind Canada's back for him to lean on, and Canada would grip his knees with shaky hands, bracing himself on his descents. Canada doesn't need his hands to touch himself. Russia is more than willing to touch Canada between his legs. In fact, he loves the quiet sound Canada breathily makes when he wraps his hand around him. He can't fit the entire length in one hand - not that he's seen it - partly because hey, second largest by landmass, right? That must count for something! And partly because Russia secretly wouldn't mind being penetrated. If it were anybody else he'd scream bloody murder at the thought of it but oh, he'd do anything for Canada. And somehow, never-been-touched Canada would make it amazing for him.
Who knows how they got to this point, doesn't matter, maybe Russia invited him over for tea, or whatever. In Russia's mind, he's a far better smooth-talker than he is in reality.
Canada's face is glowing with sweat, in the moonlight from the window above Russia's bed. He bites down on his lip when he slams his hips down, faster now, and Russia answers with an upward thrust, seeking to claim. A motion that says, you're mine, and one that replies, da, tvoy, Vanya - oh, yes, yes - he makes sure to imagine Canada coming first, that's gentlemanly. So Canada digs his nails into Russia's knees and arches his back, grinding his erection into Russia's palm. He stops stroking Canada's thigh with his other hand in order to cover the mess and keep things relatively clean, but some escapes as he watches Canada's face, contorted in ecstasy, as he writhes above him - so close, yes - aah -
Anyway, the point is, weeks pass and Canada doesn't call, which means he probably isn't interested, and that is why Russia has elected to spend so many recent nights vodka-wallowing in his stupid, illogical, impossible fantasies.
.:.
His second mistake is not calling America for help. Frankly, he'd rather eat dirt ... unfortunately, he can't deny it, America knows his brother better than Russia does. But hopefully not that much better. If there is any truth to the rumours about precisely how undefended that border is, Russia might have to introduce America to his pipe.
"Allo?"
"What the hell gives, man?"
Luckily for Russia, his second mistake is easily fixed, because America obviously thinks nothing of calling him up.
"What are you talking about, comrade?"
"Don't comrade me, you dickless weasel. What the holy hell is wrong with you? You take him out on a nice date, you wine and dine him, you give him the old hey this has been fun let's do it again sometime, and then you just eff off forever?"
"I do not understand what you mean to imply, America. Be clearer, pozhaluista. What is your problem?"
"My problem, you jackass, is that you're leading my bro on. And I don't like that. I thought you, y'know."
"No, America, I do not know."
"Well, don't you like him? Or what, do you just wanna fuck him the once?"
It's unclear by America's tone of voice alone which card he should play. He's not sure which one would upset America further, nor is he sure whether he'd like to have America upset further. The one card he doesn't want to play is the truth, but ultimately, Russia isn't entirely sure what he wants, either, because he's never considered seriously before the prospect of actually getting it.
"I'm waiting, Russkie."
"Da, well patience is virtue you lack."
"Ugh. If you don't want to admit you just want to sleep with him once to get it out of your system, it's fine, I don't care. We all do this from time to time, so... let's be adults about it, huh? Yeah okay, so I'm his brother, and it's prolly kinda weird to talk to me about this, but remember, I look out for his best interests too. Y'know?"
"Oh? And I am such interests now, is this it?"
"Pfft. Hardly. Bro's upset you've given him the Cuba treatment."
"What is Cuba treatment? Is this where I hide giant ton of nuclear arms at friend's house?"
"That is not even a little bit funny. No, joker, the Cuba treatment is where people tell Canada shit like 'oh hey come on over whenever' and then completely forget about him. Or act surprised when he shows up. Or beat him up when they mistake him for me. So now he just assumes everybody's forgotten about him after he leaves their sight and any offer made is like, null and void. It's pathetic."
"Is kind of sad actually."
"Yeah, s'what I meant. Anyway, if you were serious about getting together with him again? Call him the fuck up, okay? You gotta make the first move with him, you can't be lettin' him do it. Cuz he won't."
"But, I ... I can't -"
"Tchyeah you fuckin' can."
"What does he want? From me, what would he like?"
"It doesn't matter what he really wants."
"Wait, what? Did you not say acting in best interests?"
"Yeah, well ... look. Canada doesn't get a lot of action. I dunno what he's looking for, I don't even know if he's looking at all, but he will probably hand himself over to you, anyway. It doesn't matter if this is a one-night-stand, or you courtin' his shy ass for a year. Just the night will make him happy. So. Call him. The fuck. Up. And do it now."
"But what do I say?"
"Oh for the love of - jesus, Russia, you could say any old thing to him. Hell, you could say nothing to him. Y'know what, that's an even better idea, take him to, like, a movie, where neither of you have to fucking talk, you'll get on great. Kiss him at the end of the night, you'll have him eating out of your hand. Listen. I know you got a pair, and I know you got his number, so put both to good use and just fuckin' call him already. If I don't hear from him in thirty minutes telling me the news I'm gonna blast you one."
And then America hangs up on him without clarifying precisely what is meant by 'blast'.
.:.
Since dinner didn't work so well last time without something to talk about, Russia finds an activity that doesn't require an obligation to fill silence with conversation. But fortunately, there are cheap tickets to the symphony Saturday night. The program is Dvorak and Mendelssohn, who were neither Russian nor Canadian, so it's an even playing field, politically neutral - not like he worries about such things with Canada.
He's almost bought tickets when he realises there's also a hockey game that night. And it's Leopards versus the Knights. Done.
Unfortunately, he forgets to pay particular attention to the teams. This is his third mistake.
The Vityaz Chekhov - the Knights, based in Chekhov, Moskva - are pretty close to his heart, mostly because they're overly violent, especially when it's a home game. The team is almost all Russian with a few Canadians and one Kazakh. The Barys Astana - the Leopards, based in Astana, Kazakhstan - are not his favourite (though they're better to support than the Metallurg Novokuznetsk who are kind of hopeless this year). That team is mostly made of Kazakhs, with five very good Canadian players - in truth, he's not sure how the KHL managed to steal them away - and a smattering of other nationalities (Czech, Swedish, even two American players, many fewer Russians).
Russia had formerly been in an excellent mood, because Canada had seemed so delighted on the phone when he asked him to the game, and when he'd gone to pick him up from the airport, his heart sort of gave a funny little jolt as they locked eyes from across the room at the arrivals pickup and Canada grinned widely.
But then the hockey game starts and Canada decides to root for the Leopards. When he mentions their Canadian players with glowing, excited eyes, Russia blurts out, "It is good thing you're cute, because bad choice, comrade," without realising what he's said. That's okay though, because Canada doesn't notice the slip. Unfortunately, the reason Canada doesn't notice is because he is too busy flipping his shit in Russia's face.
Amazingly, it doesn't come to blows between them, but it does get close at a few points. Words are said. Glares are exchanged. The people sitting in the row in front of them turn around to shame them into shutting up, and when that doesn't work, a particularly angry Barys supporter in the row behind them screams for silence. So Canada and Russia spend the better part of the second period Not Talking To Each Other.
Russia isn't sure what Canada is thinking but he must not be pleased. Well that's just fine for him, he thinks petulantly, because neither is Russia! There were ... parallels, that could be drawn between Canada and Lithuania. Both shy and quiet, both very submissive. Both beautiful and delicate. He liked all of that in a lover. He also liked willingness but it was usually on his part to bewilling to give up that criterion. So Russia had this image of perfect, meek, pretty Canada that was not simply broken but rather entirely decimated by cursing, spitting, aggressive Canada.
Russia feels a little bit betrayed.
Then the third period starts, and Canada breaks the silence to ask, "What the hell? Five forwards? Are, are they insane?"
Russia chuckles. "Ah, yes! Is old Russian play. Called 'no, really, I swear, we're just here to play hockey'." Canada raises an eyebrow and Russia grins. "I assure you, there will not be much hockey playing."
Sure enough, the five Vityaz players wait until a split second after the puck drops to unleash battle fury hell that involves seriously dirty tricks. Barys pulls their goalie to put on another forward as retaliation. Blood is spilled. Teeth are knocked out. Someone gets taken off the ice unconscious. And so, with a filthy but thoroughly entertaining line brawl, Canada and Russia forget that they're angry at each other.
Besides, aggressive Canada has his advantages, thinks Russia, contemplating with vast amusement the boy next to him who is still very pretty and delicate despite the bloodthirsty look in his eyes.
Canada's hotel is nearby the arena, so Russia walks him back after the game.
"Are you staying long in Moskve?" Russia asks him.
"Um, no," Canada says, "uh, only for another two days actually."
Then, he came all the way here for hockey. Russia is more than a little flattered, but too flustered to say anything but, "oh, I see" in reply, which makes him feel silly. Maybe Canada is simply that dedicated to the game. That's probably it.
The five minutes walk is mostly quiet, with Russia pointing out a few interesting things about the city. But the city is a city is a city. He's certain Canada's got cities too. This part of it isn't one of the more interesting, antique parts, either. Although... that's probably for the better, so that he doesn't draw any more attention to how much older he is.
"Well, um, this... is me," Canada murmurs, pointing to the hotel. "Thanks for the game, it was fun."
"Da, anytime," Russia replies.
"Um."
"Tak da."
They both attempt saying something more relevant at the same time, and interrupt each other. Then they both interrupt each other again with 'no, after you'. Every time this happens Russia feels like he should just not bother speaking, ever.
"There is film playing tomorrow night, if you are interested," he offers. "If you are not busy. If you would like." He'll have to scout the theatres to see which ones have subtitles.
Suddenly, Canada blushes, and smiles very, very widely. "O-oh," he replies, "oh, Russia. Um. I- um, I see. I'd, uh, yeah. I'd like that a lot."
He must really like movies. Well! No pressure on Russia to pick a good one or anything. But he manages to keep the grumbling to a minimum as he affirms, if a bit stiffly, "I will pick you up out front at six," and Canada nods, looking a little less nervous.
Unasked for, America's advice - kiss him at the end of the night - floats back to the forefront of his mind.
But while he can't move his feet away, he absolutely cannot do that.
It's different, with a G8 country. A G8 country whose brother is America, whose closest allies are extremely powerful, and who despite being very quiet manages to get along with everybody and so has a slew of people who would back him up. Russia, meanwhile, has nobody. So he can't simply take what he wants, like he could with Lithuania. (Maybe that's for the better, because Toris didn't seem to like that much.)
But he does want. He wants so badly. It's the want that has frozen his feet where they stand. It's the want that makes him lean down, slowly enough that Canada can move away if he doesn't like it. With slight jerking motions, Russia advances slowly, and awkwardly kisses him on the cheek. A compromise between what he can't do but feels he must.
Instantly he's glad he did it. Canada's skin is soft and cool on his lips, and he smells like plain soap.
To his shock, Canada lets him back up only a bit before he leans in himself and presses their lips together. It's a chaste kiss, as far as kisses go, but no less earth-shaking. Russia closes his eyes briefly, giving in to the heady, dizzying sensation that accompanies an inability to breathe or control his heart's wild palpitations.
He recognises the feel of Canada's lips as being only peripherally like America's. The differences are small but numerous.
"See you tomorrow," Canada whispers as they part, and Russia nods shakily.
.:.
Part 2, because this was too large for one post