"Heat" [The Chosen End]
Title: "Heat"
Author: pyrrhiccomedy and wizzard890
Rating: PG
Summary: "Charity becomes you, America. But I'm not eating this." (Famine ravages Russia. Meanwhile, America is a little too altruistic for his own good.)
+++
The Chosen End: a Russia/America collaboration spanning from their first diplomatic contact in 1780 to the present day.
Moscow. November, 1892.
"Russia, open the fucking door!"
There was a series of hacking coughs from inside. "Are you still out there? I told you to leave an hour ago."
"Yeah, and it's really cold out here, I mean, fuck. Why are you being an asshole about this? I brought food! You need food!" America shoved his hands deeper in his coat pockets and stamped his feet. One of the deep sacks of groceries at his heel sagged to one side.
"No, I don't. Not from you." Another hoarse cough, slightly wet this time. The door creaked as something shifted against it from the other side.
America lowered his voice and stepped in close to the door. He leaned his forearm against it. "Not from me, or anybody else, from what France told me."
"France? …Why should he care? Why should any of you care?"
"Because you're going hungry, and it's stupid!" America thumped the side of his fist against the door. "I just want to help."
A heavy sigh. "Of course you do." There was click, a hiss of metal, and the door swung inward.
America hoisted the two sacks onto his shoulders and stormed in. "Fuck me, it's cold out there--for God's sakes, it's cold in here, too! Don't you even have a fire going? Why don't you ever take care of--" he stopped as his eyes found Russia by the doorway, gaunt and hollow-eyed. He sighed, dropped the groceries, and gave him a tight hug. "You're so annoying."
Russia stood stiffly, breath hitching. His hand brushed against America's back. "Is this the coat you wore over here? Small wonder you're so cold." A freezing gust blew in through the door, and Russia shivered.
America shoved a bag of groceries against his chest and went back out to the porch. He gathered up the rest of the bags, tottered back inside, pushed Russia out of the way, and slammed the door shut with his hip. He dropped everything in a heap at his feet. "I can't believe you kept me out on your porch for an hour, in the middle of Moscow fucking winter. Can you start a fire now, please? And I'll bring this shit to the kitchen?"
"Put it where you want." Russia dropped the bag in the closest armchair and knelt down in front of the fireplace. He shot America a tired glare and fumbled across the hearth for the tinderbox. His hands were cracked, wind-chapped; the sparks flying off the flint hissed against his skin. America watched him for a few seconds, then gathered everything up again and retreated to the kitchen.
He cooked. He was privately willing to admit that he wasn't great at it, but he made up for it in quantity. He tried not to fuss over Russia, currently slumped by the growing fire in the sitting room, but, fuck it--Russia was fun to fuss over. He always gave him that excellent glare.
Eventually, Russia joined him in the kitchen. He pulled one of the wooden chairs out from the table and sat down on it backwards, draping his arms over the carved back. He watched America at the stove. "I hope you're only making enough for one," he mumbled against his sleeve. "I don't want any."
America rolled his eyes and checked the potatoes in the steamer. "I'm almost kinda flattered that you think I can eat all this by myself."
"Wouldn't put it past you." Russia coughed into the crook of his arm. "I let you in so you wouldn't lose a hand to frostbite, not because I wanted what you had to offer."
"You're all heart." He sliced open a hunk of bread and spooned out a few chunks of meat from the stew. He stuck them into the roll and set it down on the table in front of Russia. "Get started with that," he instructed him. "I'm almost done."
Russia threw him another look. "Charity becomes you, America. But I'm not eating this."
America paused, turned away from the oven, and regarded Russia for a long clutch of seconds. He sighed and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand, then went back to attending the pots and skillets cluttering the stovetop. "I don't blame you for not wanting their help," he said at last.
"Good. I'd thought you were going to be difficult about this."
"Those pricks in Europe. Nothing's ever free, with them. Even if they give you something out of the goodness of their hearts, they look down on you for accepting it. I do know."
Russia glowered. His expression was hard, and somehow that made the hollows of his eyes look worse, dark and--bruised, almost.
America diverted from the oven and pulled down a bottle of vodka and a glass. He introduced one to the other, then them both down in front of Russia. He set a hand on his shoulder. "But this is me, so it's different, okay?"
"How?" Russia's fingers closed around the glass, and dragged it across the table. He shuddered under America's hand as he drank.
"Because we're friends." He kissed the top of Russia's head and went back to the stove.
Russia let out a long, wheezing breath, and finished off his drink. "You mean that. You honestly don't expect to get anything out of this." Neither statement was a question, but his voice was heavy with disbelief.
America felt the corner of his mouth twist into a smile. "This outpouring of gratitude from you is all the payment I could ever need," he assured him. He glanced over his shoulder and jerked his thumb at the roll. "Now eat."
Russia pulled off a bit of crust, warm and golden-brown. He turned it over and over in his fingers. "I do try to be thankful," he groused.
"No you don't," America laughed. "But I don't want you to be, so relax. You're my friend, and you're hungry, so I brought over food. 'S natural. You'd do the same for me." He tugged open the cupboard and started rummaging for plates and bowls.
Russia got up and nudged America gently out of the way with his hip. "You're too short to reach." He smiled weakly as he gathered the dishes and set them down next to the stove.
America smiled and suppressed the urge to slip an arm around him. A second later, he collected the wherewithal to protest, "What--I'm almost as tall as you! I mean...almost."
The other nation set his hands on America's shoulders and pulled him in until they were chest-to-chest. America froze under Russia's touch like a startled animal. He drew in a breath, his gaze fixed straight ahead on Russia's mouth and the pale curve of his jaw. Russia cocked his head and surveyed the difference with tired eyes. "Half a head isn't 'almost'."
Russia's fingers trailed down his arm and rested on his wrist, and America felt much too warm, all of a sudden. He wet his lips and managed, "Um...food's probably done. You should--"
Russia drew America's wrist upward, eyes hooded, and nudged his sleeve down; he pressed his lips to the line of smooth skin, the faint blue veins standing out starkly in the cold. His fingers tightened, just a bit, and then he stepped away, busying himself with stacking up the plates.
America leaned heavily on the handle of the oven door for a few seconds, blinking.
He straightened when he felt confident that his blood had gone back to assisting brain functions. He set to scooping and ladeling food into the plates. His hands were not shaking. When he splashed a few drops of scalding broth onto his arm-- "Fuck--sorry--nothing--I just...damn it" --it was absolutely not because his hands were shaking.
+++
Russia had returned to the hearth, and he sat curled against the warm bricks, soaking up the dry heat. America sat next to him, his back to the fire. He smiled. Russia's color had come back, a little, and the skin under his eyes didn't look stained and thin anymore. He searched around for something to say, but it was warm, here, and he was full, and Russia had kissed him. That last bit had interrupted every train of thought he'd had since before dinner.
"I would have helped wash up," Russia said softly, his chin propped on his hand. He didn't take his eyes off the fire.
"It's fine," America said. The firelight caught in Russia's pallid hair, his eyelashes. It threw itself golden and wild across his skin, against the curve of his lip, along the hard unbroken line of his hand, from wrist to fingernail. He distantly heard himself say, "Um, there's leftovers. And lots more food in the pantry. Promise me you'll eat it."
Russia sighed heavily, and his gaze crossed over to America. "I promise." He smiled, and the glow spilled across the exhausted line of his mouth.
Something shrank in his chest at how much he wanted to drop down beside Russia and pull him in close, it hurt. He gave a little smile. "And keep a fire going. I don't want you getting that cold again."
"I've told you before: it's always 'that cold'." Russia propped himself on his elbows. Light flickered across the pale skin of his throat. "You simply haven't adjusted yet."
America tipped his head. "The heat still feels nice, though, doesn't it?"
Russia closed his eyes. "I'm...getting used to it."
"Huh." He pulled his knees up against his chest and made himself look away from Russia, into the fire. "I don't understand how anyone could prefer the cold. You've got to come and visit me in California, or Texas, or Florida, or somewhere, once this clears up--somewhere with a good beach. You don't have any of those, do you? --Man, you haven't been by California in ages, now, have you..."
"No," Russia murmured, "I haven't." He rested his head on his arms and let out a long breath. His hair fell in his eyes. He looked a little doglike, suddenly, warm and contented. "I miss the sand, and the tide, and the...the little creatures that crawl up into the rock pools..." Russia trailed off, and looked up at America.
America moved to stroke Russia's hair, but he caught himself. He diverted his eyes and felt the heat of the fire on his cheeks. "So," he sighed. "Come visit."
Russia nuzzled his face further into his sleeves and smiled. He looked half-asleep already. "All right, then." His backbone brushed against America's thigh. America accepted the small shock that passed through him as a matter of course.
His hand dropped to rest between Russia's shoulder blades. "I can't let you pass out on the floor. Let's get you to your room, come on."
"Going to carry me?" Russia chuckled and turned over on his back, before breaking into another series of hoarse coughs.
America grinned and knelt beside him. "I will if you want me to." He slid one arm under Russia's shoulders, guided one of Russia's hands to his neck, and peeled him off the floor.
Russia's fingers curled against America's skin, and he went limp against him. "Are you being coy, America?" he teased.
America shivered and hoisted him half-upright, his fingers digging into Russia's shoulder in support. "I'm just trying to get you in bed, so you don't wake up freezing and sore." The second half of that sentence came out faster than the first, as America realized what the first half had said. He carefully did not look at Russia.
Russia made a contented, humming noise in the back of his throat, and he leaned heavily into America. His breath was hot on his neck. "Then by all means...take me to bed." He laughed unsteadily and butted his cheek against America's shoulder.
"I swear you didn't drink this much," America muttered. He blushed to the back of his neck.
Russia wasn't as heavy as he thought he would be--well, famine would do that. They still almost didn't make it. Russia kept mumbling against his skin, and running his fingertips over the back of America's neck, and it sent pleasant shocks to his knees and nearly buckled them.
He felt a rush of relief when he found Russia's bedroom and laid him down. His breath made soft clouds in the darkness. "There's a fireplace," he managed, "I'll--uh--yeah."
Russia sat up a little, shrugged out of his coat, unbuttoned his shirt. He tugged it off and tossed it to the foot of the bed as he crawled under the blankets. He dropped back on the pillows. The white curves of his chest and collarbone stood out starkly against the dark bedclothes. He gave America a little smile.
America felt an odd divergence. His mind said: all right, now, turn around, start building a fire, there's probably everything you need to make one already here, if you can't find it then Russia will know. He could see himself doing it, very clearly.
His body wouldn't move. He stood at the edge of the bed, quite still, his eyes fastened to the cool, clear lines of Russia's neck and shoulder.
Russia watched him, his eyes almost invisible in the darkness. His fingers flexed on the blanket, reaching for--nothing. Something. He was much thinner than he should have been, and with his shirt off, it was possible to see the abrupt angles of his ribs. The old house creaked around them, and he looked up, his attention momentarily snapped off of America.
America exhaled and turned away--dazed, released. He dropped to one knee in front of the fireplace. A fire. Yes. The dry wood, in a stack, off to the left, and next to it, a basket full of kindling and a little container of lamp oil. He was aware of every grain and splinter against his fingertips. He knew how to do this, there was no reason for him to fumble the kindling. He blamed it on the cold. It was already settling into his knuckles again.
"Are you having trouble?" Russia straightened up and coughed. The blankets collapsed around his hips.
"God help me," America muttered. He managed to get the fire started, and flames leapt up, threw his shadow back across the bed. He followed it, sat down on the edge next to Russia. He touched his shoulder, and grimaced. "You're cold again already."
Russia shrugged. "Always." He shifted a little, so the other nation's fingers slid across his skin. His bones were too sharp. His chest hitched, and he coughed again.
America smiled a little against a rush of tenderness. "You need rest." He leaned in swiftly and kissed the corner of Russia's jaw. He meant to say I'll check on you tomorrow, but that didn't happen, somehow. His arms closed around Russia instead, gentle and sudden.
Russia shuddered and nudged his face into the hollow of America's throat. "Are you leaving Moscow tonight?" He asked, voice muffled. His left arm threaded around his shoulders, and he pulled America closer.
America slid across the few inches separating them. One hand rose to rest at the back of Russia's head. "I, uh, I guess so. I was planning on it, anyway."
"Don't," Russia whispered. He dropped his head back into America's grip and closed his eyes. "Just stay here." He broke into another line of hacking coughs.
"Lay down," America urged him, and pressed Russia back into bed. He sat up, unlaced his shoes, pulled them off, and his socks, and tugged his sweater off over his head, as well. His glasses caught in the collar and came off his face; he captured them before they clattered to the floor, and set them on the night stand. He climbed into bed on the far side, so Russia would be between him and the fire. He ravelled his arms around him and pulled him in close.
Russia gave a contented little sigh as America's hand fell into the small of his back. He tucked his head beneath America's chin, fanned his fingers across his collarbone. "American aid..." he mumbled sleepily. "Are you this altruistic with other nations?"
America smiled into his hair. "No," he murmured. "I don't do this with anyone else." He grazed a few strands of hair to one side. "Just you." He tugged the blanket up around Russia's shoulders and nuzzled into him gently.
There was one last cough, and something that sounded like Good. Then Russia feathered a tiny kiss through America's shirt, and closed his eyes.
America listened to him breathing for a long time, and the fire popping, and his ancient, vast house settling around them. The only thought he would remember afterward was: he's warm. So he can get warm.
He wondered if creating that warmth might not be an admirable goal in life.
Years later, he would try to forget that it had ever crossed his mind, and he would never quite succeed.
+++
-Widespread famine afflicted Russia in 1891-1893, particularly the area around Odessa and the Volga and Tambov regions, after a succession of poor harvests. American humanitarian organizations stepped forward with significant donations. After initial resistance to accepting outside aid, the Russian autocracy organized a special committee led by the heir to the throne, Grand Duke Nicholas, to coordinate relief. The famine also served to encourage further Russian emigration to the United States.
+++
Reviews are greatly appreciated!
+
Author: pyrrhiccomedy and wizzard890
Rating: PG
Summary: "Charity becomes you, America. But I'm not eating this." (Famine ravages Russia. Meanwhile, America is a little too altruistic for his own good.)
+++
The Chosen End: a Russia/America collaboration spanning from their first diplomatic contact in 1780 to the present day.
Moscow. November, 1892.
"Russia, open the fucking door!"
There was a series of hacking coughs from inside. "Are you still out there? I told you to leave an hour ago."
"Yeah, and it's really cold out here, I mean, fuck. Why are you being an asshole about this? I brought food! You need food!" America shoved his hands deeper in his coat pockets and stamped his feet. One of the deep sacks of groceries at his heel sagged to one side.
"No, I don't. Not from you." Another hoarse cough, slightly wet this time. The door creaked as something shifted against it from the other side.
America lowered his voice and stepped in close to the door. He leaned his forearm against it. "Not from me, or anybody else, from what France told me."
"France? …Why should he care? Why should any of you care?"
"Because you're going hungry, and it's stupid!" America thumped the side of his fist against the door. "I just want to help."
A heavy sigh. "Of course you do." There was click, a hiss of metal, and the door swung inward.
America hoisted the two sacks onto his shoulders and stormed in. "Fuck me, it's cold out there--for God's sakes, it's cold in here, too! Don't you even have a fire going? Why don't you ever take care of--" he stopped as his eyes found Russia by the doorway, gaunt and hollow-eyed. He sighed, dropped the groceries, and gave him a tight hug. "You're so annoying."
Russia stood stiffly, breath hitching. His hand brushed against America's back. "Is this the coat you wore over here? Small wonder you're so cold." A freezing gust blew in through the door, and Russia shivered.
America shoved a bag of groceries against his chest and went back out to the porch. He gathered up the rest of the bags, tottered back inside, pushed Russia out of the way, and slammed the door shut with his hip. He dropped everything in a heap at his feet. "I can't believe you kept me out on your porch for an hour, in the middle of Moscow fucking winter. Can you start a fire now, please? And I'll bring this shit to the kitchen?"
"Put it where you want." Russia dropped the bag in the closest armchair and knelt down in front of the fireplace. He shot America a tired glare and fumbled across the hearth for the tinderbox. His hands were cracked, wind-chapped; the sparks flying off the flint hissed against his skin. America watched him for a few seconds, then gathered everything up again and retreated to the kitchen.
He cooked. He was privately willing to admit that he wasn't great at it, but he made up for it in quantity. He tried not to fuss over Russia, currently slumped by the growing fire in the sitting room, but, fuck it--Russia was fun to fuss over. He always gave him that excellent glare.
Eventually, Russia joined him in the kitchen. He pulled one of the wooden chairs out from the table and sat down on it backwards, draping his arms over the carved back. He watched America at the stove. "I hope you're only making enough for one," he mumbled against his sleeve. "I don't want any."
America rolled his eyes and checked the potatoes in the steamer. "I'm almost kinda flattered that you think I can eat all this by myself."
"Wouldn't put it past you." Russia coughed into the crook of his arm. "I let you in so you wouldn't lose a hand to frostbite, not because I wanted what you had to offer."
"You're all heart." He sliced open a hunk of bread and spooned out a few chunks of meat from the stew. He stuck them into the roll and set it down on the table in front of Russia. "Get started with that," he instructed him. "I'm almost done."
Russia threw him another look. "Charity becomes you, America. But I'm not eating this."
America paused, turned away from the oven, and regarded Russia for a long clutch of seconds. He sighed and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand, then went back to attending the pots and skillets cluttering the stovetop. "I don't blame you for not wanting their help," he said at last.
"Good. I'd thought you were going to be difficult about this."
"Those pricks in Europe. Nothing's ever free, with them. Even if they give you something out of the goodness of their hearts, they look down on you for accepting it. I do know."
Russia glowered. His expression was hard, and somehow that made the hollows of his eyes look worse, dark and--bruised, almost.
America diverted from the oven and pulled down a bottle of vodka and a glass. He introduced one to the other, then them both down in front of Russia. He set a hand on his shoulder. "But this is me, so it's different, okay?"
"How?" Russia's fingers closed around the glass, and dragged it across the table. He shuddered under America's hand as he drank.
"Because we're friends." He kissed the top of Russia's head and went back to the stove.
Russia let out a long, wheezing breath, and finished off his drink. "You mean that. You honestly don't expect to get anything out of this." Neither statement was a question, but his voice was heavy with disbelief.
America felt the corner of his mouth twist into a smile. "This outpouring of gratitude from you is all the payment I could ever need," he assured him. He glanced over his shoulder and jerked his thumb at the roll. "Now eat."
Russia pulled off a bit of crust, warm and golden-brown. He turned it over and over in his fingers. "I do try to be thankful," he groused.
"No you don't," America laughed. "But I don't want you to be, so relax. You're my friend, and you're hungry, so I brought over food. 'S natural. You'd do the same for me." He tugged open the cupboard and started rummaging for plates and bowls.
Russia got up and nudged America gently out of the way with his hip. "You're too short to reach." He smiled weakly as he gathered the dishes and set them down next to the stove.
America smiled and suppressed the urge to slip an arm around him. A second later, he collected the wherewithal to protest, "What--I'm almost as tall as you! I mean...almost."
The other nation set his hands on America's shoulders and pulled him in until they were chest-to-chest. America froze under Russia's touch like a startled animal. He drew in a breath, his gaze fixed straight ahead on Russia's mouth and the pale curve of his jaw. Russia cocked his head and surveyed the difference with tired eyes. "Half a head isn't 'almost'."
Russia's fingers trailed down his arm and rested on his wrist, and America felt much too warm, all of a sudden. He wet his lips and managed, "Um...food's probably done. You should--"
Russia drew America's wrist upward, eyes hooded, and nudged his sleeve down; he pressed his lips to the line of smooth skin, the faint blue veins standing out starkly in the cold. His fingers tightened, just a bit, and then he stepped away, busying himself with stacking up the plates.
America leaned heavily on the handle of the oven door for a few seconds, blinking.
He straightened when he felt confident that his blood had gone back to assisting brain functions. He set to scooping and ladeling food into the plates. His hands were not shaking. When he splashed a few drops of scalding broth onto his arm-- "Fuck--sorry--nothing--I just...damn it" --it was absolutely not because his hands were shaking.
+++
Russia had returned to the hearth, and he sat curled against the warm bricks, soaking up the dry heat. America sat next to him, his back to the fire. He smiled. Russia's color had come back, a little, and the skin under his eyes didn't look stained and thin anymore. He searched around for something to say, but it was warm, here, and he was full, and Russia had kissed him. That last bit had interrupted every train of thought he'd had since before dinner.
"I would have helped wash up," Russia said softly, his chin propped on his hand. He didn't take his eyes off the fire.
"It's fine," America said. The firelight caught in Russia's pallid hair, his eyelashes. It threw itself golden and wild across his skin, against the curve of his lip, along the hard unbroken line of his hand, from wrist to fingernail. He distantly heard himself say, "Um, there's leftovers. And lots more food in the pantry. Promise me you'll eat it."
Russia sighed heavily, and his gaze crossed over to America. "I promise." He smiled, and the glow spilled across the exhausted line of his mouth.
Something shrank in his chest at how much he wanted to drop down beside Russia and pull him in close, it hurt. He gave a little smile. "And keep a fire going. I don't want you getting that cold again."
"I've told you before: it's always 'that cold'." Russia propped himself on his elbows. Light flickered across the pale skin of his throat. "You simply haven't adjusted yet."
America tipped his head. "The heat still feels nice, though, doesn't it?"
Russia closed his eyes. "I'm...getting used to it."
"Huh." He pulled his knees up against his chest and made himself look away from Russia, into the fire. "I don't understand how anyone could prefer the cold. You've got to come and visit me in California, or Texas, or Florida, or somewhere, once this clears up--somewhere with a good beach. You don't have any of those, do you? --Man, you haven't been by California in ages, now, have you..."
"No," Russia murmured, "I haven't." He rested his head on his arms and let out a long breath. His hair fell in his eyes. He looked a little doglike, suddenly, warm and contented. "I miss the sand, and the tide, and the...the little creatures that crawl up into the rock pools..." Russia trailed off, and looked up at America.
America moved to stroke Russia's hair, but he caught himself. He diverted his eyes and felt the heat of the fire on his cheeks. "So," he sighed. "Come visit."
Russia nuzzled his face further into his sleeves and smiled. He looked half-asleep already. "All right, then." His backbone brushed against America's thigh. America accepted the small shock that passed through him as a matter of course.
His hand dropped to rest between Russia's shoulder blades. "I can't let you pass out on the floor. Let's get you to your room, come on."
"Going to carry me?" Russia chuckled and turned over on his back, before breaking into another series of hoarse coughs.
America grinned and knelt beside him. "I will if you want me to." He slid one arm under Russia's shoulders, guided one of Russia's hands to his neck, and peeled him off the floor.
Russia's fingers curled against America's skin, and he went limp against him. "Are you being coy, America?" he teased.
America shivered and hoisted him half-upright, his fingers digging into Russia's shoulder in support. "I'm just trying to get you in bed, so you don't wake up freezing and sore." The second half of that sentence came out faster than the first, as America realized what the first half had said. He carefully did not look at Russia.
Russia made a contented, humming noise in the back of his throat, and he leaned heavily into America. His breath was hot on his neck. "Then by all means...take me to bed." He laughed unsteadily and butted his cheek against America's shoulder.
"I swear you didn't drink this much," America muttered. He blushed to the back of his neck.
Russia wasn't as heavy as he thought he would be--well, famine would do that. They still almost didn't make it. Russia kept mumbling against his skin, and running his fingertips over the back of America's neck, and it sent pleasant shocks to his knees and nearly buckled them.
He felt a rush of relief when he found Russia's bedroom and laid him down. His breath made soft clouds in the darkness. "There's a fireplace," he managed, "I'll--uh--yeah."
Russia sat up a little, shrugged out of his coat, unbuttoned his shirt. He tugged it off and tossed it to the foot of the bed as he crawled under the blankets. He dropped back on the pillows. The white curves of his chest and collarbone stood out starkly against the dark bedclothes. He gave America a little smile.
America felt an odd divergence. His mind said: all right, now, turn around, start building a fire, there's probably everything you need to make one already here, if you can't find it then Russia will know. He could see himself doing it, very clearly.
His body wouldn't move. He stood at the edge of the bed, quite still, his eyes fastened to the cool, clear lines of Russia's neck and shoulder.
Russia watched him, his eyes almost invisible in the darkness. His fingers flexed on the blanket, reaching for--nothing. Something. He was much thinner than he should have been, and with his shirt off, it was possible to see the abrupt angles of his ribs. The old house creaked around them, and he looked up, his attention momentarily snapped off of America.
America exhaled and turned away--dazed, released. He dropped to one knee in front of the fireplace. A fire. Yes. The dry wood, in a stack, off to the left, and next to it, a basket full of kindling and a little container of lamp oil. He was aware of every grain and splinter against his fingertips. He knew how to do this, there was no reason for him to fumble the kindling. He blamed it on the cold. It was already settling into his knuckles again.
"Are you having trouble?" Russia straightened up and coughed. The blankets collapsed around his hips.
"God help me," America muttered. He managed to get the fire started, and flames leapt up, threw his shadow back across the bed. He followed it, sat down on the edge next to Russia. He touched his shoulder, and grimaced. "You're cold again already."
Russia shrugged. "Always." He shifted a little, so the other nation's fingers slid across his skin. His bones were too sharp. His chest hitched, and he coughed again.
America smiled a little against a rush of tenderness. "You need rest." He leaned in swiftly and kissed the corner of Russia's jaw. He meant to say I'll check on you tomorrow, but that didn't happen, somehow. His arms closed around Russia instead, gentle and sudden.
Russia shuddered and nudged his face into the hollow of America's throat. "Are you leaving Moscow tonight?" He asked, voice muffled. His left arm threaded around his shoulders, and he pulled America closer.
America slid across the few inches separating them. One hand rose to rest at the back of Russia's head. "I, uh, I guess so. I was planning on it, anyway."
"Don't," Russia whispered. He dropped his head back into America's grip and closed his eyes. "Just stay here." He broke into another line of hacking coughs.
"Lay down," America urged him, and pressed Russia back into bed. He sat up, unlaced his shoes, pulled them off, and his socks, and tugged his sweater off over his head, as well. His glasses caught in the collar and came off his face; he captured them before they clattered to the floor, and set them on the night stand. He climbed into bed on the far side, so Russia would be between him and the fire. He ravelled his arms around him and pulled him in close.
Russia gave a contented little sigh as America's hand fell into the small of his back. He tucked his head beneath America's chin, fanned his fingers across his collarbone. "American aid..." he mumbled sleepily. "Are you this altruistic with other nations?"
America smiled into his hair. "No," he murmured. "I don't do this with anyone else." He grazed a few strands of hair to one side. "Just you." He tugged the blanket up around Russia's shoulders and nuzzled into him gently.
There was one last cough, and something that sounded like Good. Then Russia feathered a tiny kiss through America's shirt, and closed his eyes.
America listened to him breathing for a long time, and the fire popping, and his ancient, vast house settling around them. The only thought he would remember afterward was: he's warm. So he can get warm.
He wondered if creating that warmth might not be an admirable goal in life.
Years later, he would try to forget that it had ever crossed his mind, and he would never quite succeed.
+++
-Widespread famine afflicted Russia in 1891-1893, particularly the area around Odessa and the Volga and Tambov regions, after a succession of poor harvests. American humanitarian organizations stepped forward with significant donations. After initial resistance to accepting outside aid, the Russian autocracy organized a special committee led by the heir to the throne, Grand Duke Nicholas, to coordinate relief. The famine also served to encourage further Russian emigration to the United States.
+++
Reviews are greatly appreciated!
+