54 - My Death Will Have Your Eyes [Pt 5]
Title: My Death Will Have Your Eyes [Pt 5]
Characters: Russia/America.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: 1962 - The Cuban Missile Crisis draws to a close; Russia and America's relationship follows suit.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
Moscow. October 29, 1962.
They sat on the edge of Russia's bed, a good two feet apart. The fire flickered dull and low behind the grate. Russia watched it, and didn't say anything.
America wet his lips. "Um. So, I heard this morning. That you're taking away the missiles. I said that over the phone. It's, uh, that's good."
A heavy, awkward silence.
"That's good," he repeated, weaker. "And I'll…um, once the crisis is over, I'll get rid of those Jupiters, and…"
A log shifted in the fire, broke into bits. "That isn't the reason I asked you to come," Russia said quietly.
America chewed on his lip. "Oh."
Russia dragged in a deep breath. "I was right about what I said to you at the White House." His shoulders tightened in against his neck. "This is too dangerous, America. You and I are going to kill one another."
America's ears turned pink. His head sank down another inch and he muttered, "I know."
Russia blinked up at the other nation. He felt a knot turn over in his chest. "Wait, you... What?"
America's fingers twitched on the edge of the bed. "We've gotta...we've gotta call this off. You're right."
He...He had expected a fight. Russia pressed his lips together, stared down into his lap. "What changed your mind?"
America clicked off his glasses and massaged his eyes. "We almost killed each other, beautiful. And I don't even fucking know why, at this point. You're the--you're the last person in the world I want to hurt."
Don't call me... Russia swallowed it and plucked America's glasses from his half-closed fingers. He set them on the bedside table. "I don't want to hurt you, either."
America pushed across the bed to sit right beside him. He threaded their fingers together and stared at the floor. "...We're a couple of fuckups, huh."
Russia nodded, and pressed the heels of their hands flush together. His heart felt heavy as lead.
A hot note of misery crawled into America's voice, and he snapped up to meet Russia's eyes. "I'm gonna miss you so damn much."
Russia's throat clenched, but he struggled through. He squeezed the other nation's fingers, and lifted them to his lips; breathed against America's knuckles, "I don't want you to say that. You don't need to miss me."
"What are you saying, of course I'm gonna miss you!" America's fingers spasmed tighter in his, and he jerked half-in to face him. "I'll let you go, I get it now, it's not--the, the deck is just stacked against us, I get it, but don't--" Something shivered inside those summer eyes. "I'm not gonna pretend I'm not in love with you when I do it, okay?"
The corners of Russia's mouth flinched, and he jerked his hand away. They stared at one another in the following silence, two seconds, three, before Russia crushed his arms around America's shoulders and gathered him fiercely in. "But you don't have to," he gasped, his face buried in the hollow of America's neck and shoulder. "Can't you just--just stop? Please? It'll be easier--"
America's shoulders heaved on a miserable laugh, and he clenched Russia in around his waist. "Fuck, sweetheart, I wish I could, I-I've tried that, I just can't--help it, I always--always--"
"Shouldn't have started in the first place," Russia mumbled. America's hands were a sweet pressure, warm in the small of his back.
"Beautiful--" America tugged back an inch, found Russia's eyes. He curled one hand into Russia's hair. "Beautiful," he repeated, soft, "Say it. Please say it, just once, okay? I-I--it doesn't make any difference anymore, but...but I waited so long and..." When America blinked, his eyes went wet.
Russia looked into America's face, and hated himself. His fingers crept up, slow, and curled into the hollow of America's jaw. He tipped their foreheads together. "America, I-I..." It had been years since he'd said those words; to his sisters, to anyone. He'd always been disgusted by the way his voice sounded when he did. His eyes slipped closed: he couldn't look at him while he said it. "I love you."
He felt America tense, brace against something, from the back of his neck all the way down his spine; a quiet breath rushed out of him. America tipped his chin up and kissed the corner of Russia's mouth: warm and slow and lingering, and he whispered back, "I love you, too."
Even if it didn't matter.
Russia let out a soft sound, let himself crumple down onto the mattress. He dragged America with him, beside him and half-over him, and they drifted into another kiss. It was damp this time, every bit as soft, but...but he felt cold. He blinked his eyes open when they finally parted. "I-I...I'm sorry it took so long..."
"It's okay." America's mouth walked across Russia's lower lip. His body was heavy and warm above Russia's, and he tucked his knee against Russia's hip. "I...it doesn't have to be forever, right?" His gaze flickered up. "I mean...I mean, someday, things between us will get better, right? Or we'll...we'll stop being so crap at this..."
It hurt to lie to him. Russia said "Maybe" anyway.
He nuzzled their cheeks together, and the fire dashed strange shadows over both their faces as he wound a hand behind America's back; touched his fingers gentle down his spine. "Do you...really believe that?" He asked after a moment. "That things will change?"
America curled into him, like the roll of a wave under Russia's fingertips. "They've got to, don't you figure?" He gave a shaky smile. "I mean...even England and France are getting along okay these days. Bad relations never last forever, right?"
Russia arched up and kissed the weak corner of America's smile, nodded an inch against his face. "But it took them centuries."
"Yeah, but they're a special case, of like...assholes..." America's voice faded out. He sank down and rested his head on Russia's shoulder. America's fingertips grazed over and over again through his hair. "But you're just saying," he exhaled, "We might be in for a long wait."
Russia touched a kiss to his temple. "Yes." He lingered, breathed the clean scent of America's hair. Their hips fit together just so. Russia closed his eyes. "How are we going to…talk to one another, after this?"
America ran the backs of his fingers along the line of Russia's jaw and tipped his chin down into another kiss. "Maybe it'd be better if we kind of didn't talk for a while," he mumbled. "I don't...I-I think I'm gonna need some time."
"I understand." Russia thought of watching America from across a room, and never saying a word. He thought about not being able to hold him. "Would you..." He dug his teeth briefly into his lower lip. "The next time we meet with our bosses, the--the two of us...Don't shake my hand. Don't touch me. Please."
America smiled miserably. "We'll have a, um. H-hands off policy for a while." His arm tightened around Russia's waist.
"Do you promise?" Russia began dropping kisses across America's throat, parting his lips on the end of each one. Now. He'd taste him while he could.
America's fingers tightened in Russia's hair. "I-I promise--" a hiccupped laugh, too wet not to be tear-stung: "God, beautiful, what am I gonna do without you..."
"I'm sorry..." Russia's breath twisted, and he put his teeth into the next kiss, sucked an inch of America's neck until it was red and bruised, to give him something, at least, that would linger.
A breath plunged into America, loud and hard, and America kissed frantic across Russia's hair. "Russia, I don't want this! I-I don't want to lose you, I want, I want, I want to keep trying, I c-can't--how am I supposed to just let you go, beautiful, how can I look at you and just--know I said we should s-split up, and--" gulped air, ragged in his lungs. "M-maybe if we keep trying, I mean, the, the crisis is over now, maybe we can--I love you so damn much, how am I supposed to--"
Russia's heart lunged into his mouth. He jerked his head up and scrambled America against his body, too hard, forced their ribs together until they ached. "No, America, stop, stop, you have to stop...Y-You can't--Don't go back on this, ptenchik, you promised me--"
"Then give me something!" America cried. He clawed his way up a few inches, threw a bleary gaze across the nightstand. "Give me--w-where are your cigarettes--"
Russia stretched, twisted and ripped the drawer open. Ice was slating up the insides of his lungs, and it--it hurt like the cold hadn't in years. He dropped a grey, tattered pack of cigarettes onto the quilt, his Zippo followed--he'd kept it without knowing why--
America stayed half-down on the bed, propped on one elbow, his eyes fixed on the Zippo, his skin gone pale. He tightened, trembled, a little, and without a word he undid the top two buttons of his shirt and tugged down his collar--exposed the livid red mark at the join of his neck where Russia had sank his teeth in. Russia plucked out a cigarette with trembling fingers. He understood; he kept his eyes on that swatch of skin. The cigarette went between his lips, grainy cheap paper sticking in his mouth, and he lit up without looking. Bitter smoke curled out with his next breath.
He came closer, leaned down over America, took the cigarette between his fingers--let it heat--and gave the other nation a foul, ashy kiss. America filled Russia's mouth with his tongue, licked the taste of the smoke off his own lips as they parted. He tangled a hand in the front of Russia's shirt and looked up at him, bound up tight, somewhere inside himself, knotted apart and shaking.
Their eyes locked.
Russia tapped a curl of ash over the side of the bed, captured all his trembling into a single, too-long exhalation. Then he touched the golden end of the cigarette to America's neck.
"Ahh--" America's teeth locked; his eyes flinched shut. He sucked thin breaths through his teeth, two, three, four, then let them out in a sharp gust. He looked up at Russia. His eyelashes had gone dark.
"Don't you forget me either, okay." His voice was shivering and raw.
"Never," Russia breathed. He abandoned the smoldering butt in the glass ashtray on the side table, then looked at the burn: a circle of blistered skin, blood-prickled and raised. He blew a fleck of ash away, so gentle.
America slumped against him, his forehead cradled in the curve of Russia's shoulder. His fingers drifted into Russia's hair. Their bodies cringed closer. Russia traced the line of America's side, up and down, kissing in between his ribs, in the hollow of his hip. "Stay," he whispered.
America shuddered, sick and wild. He gave a fast nod, then sucked a breath between his teeth as blood oozed off the burn. He buried a kiss behind Russia's ear.
Weak evening light filtered through the window. Russia could see a faint clutch of stars from where he lay. He thought of nights he'd spent pacing the back garden, drinking, smoking, cursing, hating America. And now there was only one left. "I'm sorry," he whispered again. He didn't know how many times he's said it, but he was sure it wasn't enough. "I'm sorry I wasted so much of our time."
America stirred, after a moment; he pressed a flush kiss against Russia's lips. "I'm sorry I made you love me." His voice was young and thready. "I know you didn't want to."
+++
--After much deliberation between the Soviet Union and Kennedy's cabinet, Kennedy secretly agreed to remove all missiles set in southern Italy and in Turkey, in exchange for Khrushchev removing all missiles in Cuba. Khrushchev announced his acquiescence to the American deal over Radio Moscow on the morning of October 29th. The Soviet missiles and bombers in Cuba were removed over the next several weeks.
--Because the American concessions were made in secret, the Cuban Missile Crisis was seen as a diplomatic blunder on Khrushchev's part, and a triumph on the part of the Kennedy administration. This perception would play a part in Khrushchev's removal from power two years later.
+++
Please read our Rules & FAQ before posting. / Пожалуйста, прочтите Правила и FAQ прежде чем комментировать.
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.
Characters: Russia/America.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: 1962 - The Cuban Missile Crisis draws to a close; Russia and America's relationship follows suit.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
Moscow. October 29, 1962.
They sat on the edge of Russia's bed, a good two feet apart. The fire flickered dull and low behind the grate. Russia watched it, and didn't say anything.
America wet his lips. "Um. So, I heard this morning. That you're taking away the missiles. I said that over the phone. It's, uh, that's good."
A heavy, awkward silence.
"That's good," he repeated, weaker. "And I'll…um, once the crisis is over, I'll get rid of those Jupiters, and…"
A log shifted in the fire, broke into bits. "That isn't the reason I asked you to come," Russia said quietly.
America chewed on his lip. "Oh."
Russia dragged in a deep breath. "I was right about what I said to you at the White House." His shoulders tightened in against his neck. "This is too dangerous, America. You and I are going to kill one another."
America's ears turned pink. His head sank down another inch and he muttered, "I know."
Russia blinked up at the other nation. He felt a knot turn over in his chest. "Wait, you... What?"
America's fingers twitched on the edge of the bed. "We've gotta...we've gotta call this off. You're right."
He...He had expected a fight. Russia pressed his lips together, stared down into his lap. "What changed your mind?"
America clicked off his glasses and massaged his eyes. "We almost killed each other, beautiful. And I don't even fucking know why, at this point. You're the--you're the last person in the world I want to hurt."
Don't call me... Russia swallowed it and plucked America's glasses from his half-closed fingers. He set them on the bedside table. "I don't want to hurt you, either."
America pushed across the bed to sit right beside him. He threaded their fingers together and stared at the floor. "...We're a couple of fuckups, huh."
Russia nodded, and pressed the heels of their hands flush together. His heart felt heavy as lead.
A hot note of misery crawled into America's voice, and he snapped up to meet Russia's eyes. "I'm gonna miss you so damn much."
Russia's throat clenched, but he struggled through. He squeezed the other nation's fingers, and lifted them to his lips; breathed against America's knuckles, "I don't want you to say that. You don't need to miss me."
"What are you saying, of course I'm gonna miss you!" America's fingers spasmed tighter in his, and he jerked half-in to face him. "I'll let you go, I get it now, it's not--the, the deck is just stacked against us, I get it, but don't--" Something shivered inside those summer eyes. "I'm not gonna pretend I'm not in love with you when I do it, okay?"
The corners of Russia's mouth flinched, and he jerked his hand away. They stared at one another in the following silence, two seconds, three, before Russia crushed his arms around America's shoulders and gathered him fiercely in. "But you don't have to," he gasped, his face buried in the hollow of America's neck and shoulder. "Can't you just--just stop? Please? It'll be easier--"
America's shoulders heaved on a miserable laugh, and he clenched Russia in around his waist. "Fuck, sweetheart, I wish I could, I-I've tried that, I just can't--help it, I always--always--"
"Shouldn't have started in the first place," Russia mumbled. America's hands were a sweet pressure, warm in the small of his back.
"Beautiful--" America tugged back an inch, found Russia's eyes. He curled one hand into Russia's hair. "Beautiful," he repeated, soft, "Say it. Please say it, just once, okay? I-I--it doesn't make any difference anymore, but...but I waited so long and..." When America blinked, his eyes went wet.
Russia looked into America's face, and hated himself. His fingers crept up, slow, and curled into the hollow of America's jaw. He tipped their foreheads together. "America, I-I..." It had been years since he'd said those words; to his sisters, to anyone. He'd always been disgusted by the way his voice sounded when he did. His eyes slipped closed: he couldn't look at him while he said it. "I love you."
He felt America tense, brace against something, from the back of his neck all the way down his spine; a quiet breath rushed out of him. America tipped his chin up and kissed the corner of Russia's mouth: warm and slow and lingering, and he whispered back, "I love you, too."
Even if it didn't matter.
Russia let out a soft sound, let himself crumple down onto the mattress. He dragged America with him, beside him and half-over him, and they drifted into another kiss. It was damp this time, every bit as soft, but...but he felt cold. He blinked his eyes open when they finally parted. "I-I...I'm sorry it took so long..."
"It's okay." America's mouth walked across Russia's lower lip. His body was heavy and warm above Russia's, and he tucked his knee against Russia's hip. "I...it doesn't have to be forever, right?" His gaze flickered up. "I mean...I mean, someday, things between us will get better, right? Or we'll...we'll stop being so crap at this..."
It hurt to lie to him. Russia said "Maybe" anyway.
He nuzzled their cheeks together, and the fire dashed strange shadows over both their faces as he wound a hand behind America's back; touched his fingers gentle down his spine. "Do you...really believe that?" He asked after a moment. "That things will change?"
America curled into him, like the roll of a wave under Russia's fingertips. "They've got to, don't you figure?" He gave a shaky smile. "I mean...even England and France are getting along okay these days. Bad relations never last forever, right?"
Russia arched up and kissed the weak corner of America's smile, nodded an inch against his face. "But it took them centuries."
"Yeah, but they're a special case, of like...assholes..." America's voice faded out. He sank down and rested his head on Russia's shoulder. America's fingertips grazed over and over again through his hair. "But you're just saying," he exhaled, "We might be in for a long wait."
Russia touched a kiss to his temple. "Yes." He lingered, breathed the clean scent of America's hair. Their hips fit together just so. Russia closed his eyes. "How are we going to…talk to one another, after this?"
America ran the backs of his fingers along the line of Russia's jaw and tipped his chin down into another kiss. "Maybe it'd be better if we kind of didn't talk for a while," he mumbled. "I don't...I-I think I'm gonna need some time."
"I understand." Russia thought of watching America from across a room, and never saying a word. He thought about not being able to hold him. "Would you..." He dug his teeth briefly into his lower lip. "The next time we meet with our bosses, the--the two of us...Don't shake my hand. Don't touch me. Please."
America smiled miserably. "We'll have a, um. H-hands off policy for a while." His arm tightened around Russia's waist.
"Do you promise?" Russia began dropping kisses across America's throat, parting his lips on the end of each one. Now. He'd taste him while he could.
America's fingers tightened in Russia's hair. "I-I promise--" a hiccupped laugh, too wet not to be tear-stung: "God, beautiful, what am I gonna do without you..."
"I'm sorry..." Russia's breath twisted, and he put his teeth into the next kiss, sucked an inch of America's neck until it was red and bruised, to give him something, at least, that would linger.
A breath plunged into America, loud and hard, and America kissed frantic across Russia's hair. "Russia, I don't want this! I-I don't want to lose you, I want, I want, I want to keep trying, I c-can't--how am I supposed to just let you go, beautiful, how can I look at you and just--know I said we should s-split up, and--" gulped air, ragged in his lungs. "M-maybe if we keep trying, I mean, the, the crisis is over now, maybe we can--I love you so damn much, how am I supposed to--"
Russia's heart lunged into his mouth. He jerked his head up and scrambled America against his body, too hard, forced their ribs together until they ached. "No, America, stop, stop, you have to stop...Y-You can't--Don't go back on this, ptenchik, you promised me--"
"Then give me something!" America cried. He clawed his way up a few inches, threw a bleary gaze across the nightstand. "Give me--w-where are your cigarettes--"
Russia stretched, twisted and ripped the drawer open. Ice was slating up the insides of his lungs, and it--it hurt like the cold hadn't in years. He dropped a grey, tattered pack of cigarettes onto the quilt, his Zippo followed--he'd kept it without knowing why--
America stayed half-down on the bed, propped on one elbow, his eyes fixed on the Zippo, his skin gone pale. He tightened, trembled, a little, and without a word he undid the top two buttons of his shirt and tugged down his collar--exposed the livid red mark at the join of his neck where Russia had sank his teeth in. Russia plucked out a cigarette with trembling fingers. He understood; he kept his eyes on that swatch of skin. The cigarette went between his lips, grainy cheap paper sticking in his mouth, and he lit up without looking. Bitter smoke curled out with his next breath.
He came closer, leaned down over America, took the cigarette between his fingers--let it heat--and gave the other nation a foul, ashy kiss. America filled Russia's mouth with his tongue, licked the taste of the smoke off his own lips as they parted. He tangled a hand in the front of Russia's shirt and looked up at him, bound up tight, somewhere inside himself, knotted apart and shaking.
Their eyes locked.
Russia tapped a curl of ash over the side of the bed, captured all his trembling into a single, too-long exhalation. Then he touched the golden end of the cigarette to America's neck.
"Ahh--" America's teeth locked; his eyes flinched shut. He sucked thin breaths through his teeth, two, three, four, then let them out in a sharp gust. He looked up at Russia. His eyelashes had gone dark.
"Don't you forget me either, okay." His voice was shivering and raw.
"Never," Russia breathed. He abandoned the smoldering butt in the glass ashtray on the side table, then looked at the burn: a circle of blistered skin, blood-prickled and raised. He blew a fleck of ash away, so gentle.
America slumped against him, his forehead cradled in the curve of Russia's shoulder. His fingers drifted into Russia's hair. Their bodies cringed closer. Russia traced the line of America's side, up and down, kissing in between his ribs, in the hollow of his hip. "Stay," he whispered.
America shuddered, sick and wild. He gave a fast nod, then sucked a breath between his teeth as blood oozed off the burn. He buried a kiss behind Russia's ear.
Weak evening light filtered through the window. Russia could see a faint clutch of stars from where he lay. He thought of nights he'd spent pacing the back garden, drinking, smoking, cursing, hating America. And now there was only one left. "I'm sorry," he whispered again. He didn't know how many times he's said it, but he was sure it wasn't enough. "I'm sorry I wasted so much of our time."
America stirred, after a moment; he pressed a flush kiss against Russia's lips. "I'm sorry I made you love me." His voice was young and thready. "I know you didn't want to."
+++
--After much deliberation between the Soviet Union and Kennedy's cabinet, Kennedy secretly agreed to remove all missiles set in southern Italy and in Turkey, in exchange for Khrushchev removing all missiles in Cuba. Khrushchev announced his acquiescence to the American deal over Radio Moscow on the morning of October 29th. The Soviet missiles and bombers in Cuba were removed over the next several weeks.
--Because the American concessions were made in secret, the Cuban Missile Crisis was seen as a diplomatic blunder on Khrushchev's part, and a triumph on the part of the Kennedy administration. This perception would play a part in Khrushchev's removal from power two years later.
+++
Please read our Rules & FAQ before posting. / Пожалуйста, прочтите Правила и FAQ прежде чем комментировать.
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.