Love Is Not All [The Chosen End]
Title: Love Is Not All
Author: wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Russia/America
Summary: 1922: Despite the cessation of diplomatic contact, American aid pours into Russia in his time of need. America camps out at Russia's house to take care of him, and to those of you who stopped reading the instant you saw the rating: the answer to your question is yes, they do.
Hi all! wizzard890 is still on vacation, but like the Red Menace, TCE marches on! I'll be posting one of our stockpiled fics every 4-5 days while she's away. This one goes on her journal, so the distribution of joint posts remains equitable while she's away. -PyrrhicComedy
---
Russia's house. August, 1922.
This wasn't like the last time Russia went hungry.
Instead of marching up to the front door and pounding on the knocker, America crept around to the kitchen entrance. He checked every few seconds to make sure he wasn't being watched. He quietly let himself in with the key Russia had mailed to him, and as soon as he was inside, he snapped shut the blinds on the window. Russia wasn't supposed to let him in, but...technically he hadn't, so...
So, that was okay.
He set down his groceries on the counter and dropped his suitcase by the door. Cupboard and pantry doors and shelves hung open and exposed nothing but dust and dead cobwebs. Even the spiders went hungry here. He unwound his scarf, unbuttoned his coat, lay them both over a chair. The house was cold, and so silent he thought he could hear the paint peeling on the windowsill.
He tiptoed out into the main entryway. He called, hesitantly, "Russia?" and there was no answer, but he found his friend collapsed on the staircase, wound around his cramped stomach in a shivering sleep. America made himself remember to breathe. He knelt half-over him, pulled him up by his shoulders, and breathed "Russia, it's me--"
--Russia stirred, and made a quiet sound that just meant 'yes, I see that'--
--And he gathered him up and carried him in to his room. He bit his lip as hard as he could stand it to stop himself from thinking about how light Russia had become.
He started a fire, and put on a thick soup, and he found a rollaway bed tucked in a closet in one of the empty bedrooms. He moved it into the corner of Russia's room, close enough to the fire so that he could tend it in the night. He brought up his suitcase and arranged his things into little piles in the corner. Russia twitched around his hunger pangs and made the saddest sounds America had ever heard.
He stayed there for six weeks.
When Russia woke up, he pressed food on him. When he slept, America watched him, tried to catch up on his reading and paperwork and schematics but mostly just watched, unable to swallow sometimes around the fear that Russia might stop breathing as soon as he looked away. When Russia mumbled about the cold, or the heat, America built up or damped down the fire. They barely spoke. Russia was too weak, and America couldn't think of anything to say besides "Oh God, please eat something."
Most nights he climbed into bed beside him without a word, and held him and stroked him like he would a scared dog, or a child, keeping him warm and soothing him through hunger pangs that broke him around his stomach. When Russia passed limp into an exhausted sleep, with his fingers feebly tangled into the front of America's shirt, America stayed awake as long as he could, to listen for the first hitched breath of Russia's nightmares.
He tried not to blame himself for feeling…gratified, a little, when he woke Russia out of them, and Russia held on to him as tight as he could, and pushed his face into the curve of America's neck. It wasn't that he liked seeing Russia scared--he hated that part. But…it was just…
It was so nice to know that he was making Russia feel better. Safer.
When Russia started to recover, that's when things got tricky. It was wonderful to see him on his feet again, those hollows in his eyes and wrists filling out, and genuine smiles twinging around the corners of his mouth, but when Russia started feeling better, he wanted to be all the way better, immediately, and America ended up pushing him down into bed two or three times a day. He'd forgotten that Russia was a terrible patient. He threatened to tie him down. Russia knew he was bluffing. He thought about doing it for real, but things were still maybe a little too awkward between them for that. Because, by that point, they were talking, and it was great, but sometimes…they had these silences, because…
Well, it wasn't because they couldn't think of anything to say. But sometimes it was hard to think of anything to say that…wasn't about communism, or war debts, or Jews, or anti-communism, or Russia's boss, or America's boss, or--even the famine, just that could turn into a touchy subject so fast it made his head spin.
The awkward silence was a new addition to their conversations. America hoped it wouldn't last.
But when they did find a safe subject, it was as easy to talk to each other as ever, and when Russia had bad dreams, he still held on to America, and when America made him feel safe, Russia still smiled at him. Things like that were…such a relief, every time, they made it hard for America to catch his breath. He didn't sleep in Russia's bed anymore, now that he was mostly healthy, but those wretched little noises he made stirred America out of sleep from across the room, and he stumbled across the freezing hardwood floor to kneel by the side of Russia's bed, and catch him awake by the shoulder, and stroke his hair and make soothing noises and ignore the cold seeping through his pajamas and into his knees because--because Russia needed him, and if America was there for him, right then, then nothing else that was going on in the world would matter.
---
Suffocating cold, and blood.
Blood, soaking across the wasteland, sopping into the grey earth, curling under roots of blackened, wizened trees. Russia's boots were soaked with it. He'd fallen, twice, buried his hands in mud and gore to support himself. The wind burned across his face, chapped his lips, and he couldn't seem to close his eyes against it.
This used to be a field, an endless field. And they might have been people, those burst-open things sprawled across the ground and hung like ornaments in the trees, before rot and damp had burrowed into them, bred maggots under their ribs and fungus in their eyes. Now they had popped like steamed clams, and the white sick swelled out of them and sank into the dead earth, too.
Then, suddenly, a figure was beside him. It was an wizened, coal-blackened old woman. But it wasn't an old woman. It was a leper, every inch of skin swaddled in bandages, and tar leaked and dribbled out between them. But it wasn't a leper. It was a thing made out of shadows, the deep and inky shadows that are cast by the brightest light. But it wasn't that, either.
It stared at him a long moment, and held out two crabbed hands, talons. They were wet with blood, or tar. There was no color to anything, and Russia couldn't tell. He staggered back. "Leave me alone!"
The twisted thing took his face between its claws, left a soaking print on his cheeks. "You are."
It reared back, and it was taller than Russia, taller than the trees, growing; it filled the sky, swallowed up the field, blocked out the stars. Blood began to rain from its fingers, pour from its mouth, and he was drowning, screaming until the hideous, freezing tide surged, rose, and finally swallowed him up. He convulsed, he vomited--he vomited tar, and he realized, he realized, that that thing was him--
"--sia--" It was dark and cold, then, and something had his arm, something had his arm--he shook violently at it and gasped open on a scream. He heard "Russia!" and that hand closed around his shoulder again. "Russia, wake up!"
He snapped his eyes open. Rafters. Dim and far away, but real. His own rafters, he realized...And his own bed, and his own sheets, and--Cold sweat clung to the small of his back, sticky, and he shouted again, astonished and skin crawling.
"Hey, shhh..." He felt the mattress shift down towards the edge of the bed, and he felt clumsy, warm fingers on his face, in his hair. "Hey, it's me, it was just a dream--I'm here--"
Russia scrambled back, and the sharp movement drew the quilts tight over his chest and the base of his throat. He heaved, twisted frantic hands in the bedclothes. Suffocating, he was suffocating again, and his neck... Another scream, louder this time and more wretched.
"Russia--" America crawled onto the bed after him, pushed the covers down, pulled Russia against him. "Wake up, wake up, it's okay, it's me--" America's arm closed around his shoulders, and his other hand stroked through his hair. "Shh, shh, shh..."
Awareness flooded over him. His heart raced, he was shaking, but it was all right--it was all right: he was here. Nothing was going to happen while he was here. He buried his face against America's chest (warm) and curled his fingers into the front of his shirt. A helpless sound limped out of him.
"Easy..." America murmured, and his thumb rubbed up and down the edge of Russia's shoulder. He shifted down, into the bed, so Russia could curl up to him closer. He tugged the blankets straight around them both, and Russia felt light kisses pressing into his hair. "It's okay, everything is okay. You're safe." His breath was warm, his hands and his voice were all warm. "You're safe now, I've got you."
"I-I woke you, didn't I?" He tilted his chin up as much as he dared--the line of his throat was still prickling with phantom touches--and squinted through the darkness for America's face. "I'm sorry..."
"Don't be stupid." America combed Russia's sweat-damp hair out of his face and kissed his forehead. "I'm here to take care of you, remember?" A gentle squeeze around his shoulders.
Russia dropped his eyes. "You shouldn't even be here," he mumbled. He wouldn't insult America by amending that sentence to include an I'm fine.
"Shhh," America returned, with finality. His fingertips found the ends of Russia's hair again. "You want to tell me what it was about? It might make you feel better."
A flash of shame winced through his body. America was--too good, too golden, for things like this. But his lips parted against his will, and he told him, halting and afraid. He paused and looked up, every few minutes, a cringe around his eyes, waiting for America to be disgusted with him, to push him away, but America just caressed his hairline with the backs of his fingers and waited for more. When Russia's hesitation lingered, he took the opportunity to brush a kiss over his cheekbones. Russia felt himself relax, a little, felt his hands unclenching in America's shirt, until, by the time he reached the end--
I drowned in my own blood.
--He was breathing steadily again, and he could believe America when he said that it was just a dream.
America pulled back a little and smiled at him when he finished. "That's dumb. I wouldn't let you drown."
Russia rubbed his forehead gently against America's collarbone. He felt limber in his arms. "You can't be in my dreams, too." Not--not ones like that, at any rate.
"I could be," America replied loftily. "If you weren't such a prick about letting me help you out."
Russia gave a soft laugh.
"I bet I could beat that tar-monster up, too."
"You'd try, wouldn't you." Russia pulled away an inch, just to look at him.
"'Course. Monsters are for beating up."
"I would let you, but my boss doesn't want me accepting your charity."
America blew out an exasperated little breath and knuckled Russia's scalp. "Not officially, anyhow. Sneaking around with all the curtains drawn like this for the past few weeks...people are gonna think you've taken a mistress or something, you know that?"
Russia snorted. "Maybe I should. She might not insist on sleeping on a cot." Teasing, that was all. The leftover adrenaline was making him dizzy.
"Who's insisting?" America returned flippantly. But his hands had gone still, on Russia's shoulder, in his hair.
The tone had changed, in the space of a few seconds. "I don't know," Russia replied, and he smiled carefully. "It just seems like a waste of half a bed. But you capitalists are so wasteful."
"I thought you wanted me over there," America said, and he was smiling, too, but that wasn't--wasn't a joke. His voice was pitched to make it sound like it was, but he was actually just saying...
He felt like he was stepping into cold water, inching deeper. America's chest was a solid warmth against the side of his face, and he listened to his heart pound and tried not to think. "What gave you that idea?"
"Um...I-I don't know, actually..." America's light voice encompassed a breathless tremor. His fingers crooked into Russia's hair. "I guess it just...seemed kinda, what's that word, presumptuous to assume otherwise..."
"So England and France managed to teach you something about manners after all." Just words to fill up the silence; Russia forgot them the moment they left his mouth.
"Manners…is that what they're calling it these days," America returned weakly.
Russia thought of monsters and nightmares and dead earth soaked in blood. He thought of being woken up by the same frantic voice more times than he could count.
Charity...
There was a brief silence. He turned his head, slowly, and began pressing kisses against each of America's knuckles. "It is," he whispered.
America went still. Then, after a long hesitation, he kissed a crown into Russia's hair. His hand unfolded against the back of Russia's head and slid, in small jerks, down his back, between his shoulder blades. Russia turned America's hand over and nuzzled into his palm, let his tongue dart lightly over the webbing of skin between his thumb and forefinger.
America drew in a sharp, quiet breath. He shifted, a little--into Russia. Such a small change, they could both pretend it was an accident. America's nails curled in, just a taste, and scored faint lines down a span of his back, then back up, then down again. His kisses brought him to Russia's forehead, and he dropped his head a moment to touch his lips to Russia's temple.
Russia moved closer, because he needed to stretch, and the quilt was tangled around his legs, and America's new position forced him to adjust his weight, and, and--Something shivered through him, settled warm in his chest. His skin tingled under America's nails, and he closed his eyes, brought the hand he'd been kissing down to rest on his hip. The faint rush of warm air told him how far to move, and he nudged his mouth blindly against America's.
America's hand spasmed shut on his hip, and a soft sound fled out of him--"Ah." He swallowed, and tilted his chin down, to kiss back.
The kiss remained gentle, tentative, even as Russia opened his mouth against America, let his fingers come up to tangle in his hair. It was--not frightening, because frightening was a dream he couldn't wake up from; frightening was seeing his people as thin as the stalks of wheat which refused to grow. This was something else.
His breath hitched on a half-gasp as America began tracing circles against the sharp jut of his hip.
America arched his neck, pressed his head, his hair, against Russia's hands, and at the same time kissed from the corner of Russia's mouth to the swell of his lower lip, touched, traced his tongue across it. His chest rose and fell on short, shallow breaths, and his hand beneath the blanket followed the curve of his hipbone from top to bottom, from the soft dip at the lowest part of his side, to the hollow at the join of his thigh. His fingers were splayed, strong and warm. He was almost trembling.
Russia rose beneath America's hand. His nails carded through America's hair, dug lightly into his scalp; his hand dropped lower, to the spur of bone at the base of his skull, and urged him in, flush, hot. He couldn't straighten out his thoughts, but he managed, after some effort, to push America's name through his teeth; a question, a permission.
America let out a harsh breath, and he scrambled down, so they were level with each other. He made a quiet sound as he threaded his arm around Russia's waist, and shrugged a leg over his hips and pulled them fast together. Their mouths were quick and hot. Russia fought to catch his breath.
His fingers fell to the front of America's shirt and picked at the buttons. His tongue flicked at the edges of America's lips, mapped them out, memorized them, and he rolled his hips lightly against him. America jerked, and his leg tightened. He fumbled his arms out of his sleeves as soon as Russia had his night shirt open. Then America was running his hands up over his skin, and--Russia thought for an instant that he was still too thin, but America didn't seem repulsed. The younger nation curled up into him, and his bare skin was scalding warm against Russia's chest.
Russia splayed his hand against America's belly, dragged it lower. He came to a halt at America's waistband, and Russia's fingers curled into the fabric, knuckles pressing into hot skin. America bit his lip, not too hard but...not precisely gentle, either, and his stomach muscles clenched and his hips rose an inch towards Russia's hand.
America's fingernails trickled all the way down the bed of his spine, until his fingertips could press into the small of Russia's back and push him in as he rocked up against him. Russia groaned against America's mouth, and then he pushed America's pajama pants down his legs. He wet his lips and moved in the same direction, dropping brief, hot kisses over America's abdomen, the hollows of his hips, his thighs--parts of him that Russia had never been able to touch like this. His eyes slid shut, and then he shifted up, just a bit, and pressed a kiss against America's cock.
An abrupt, ragged intake of air, at that, like America had surfaced suddenly from underwater, and his spine arched off the bed. He still had one hand locked in Russia's hair, and the other dug into his shoulder, raised faint red crescents on his skin. "Russia." His voice was thick.
"Yes?" Russia could only manage it once, and if America didn't catch it--and he might not have, the word was breathless, caught on nerves--he wasn't going to be able to repeat himself. He didn't move. His breath gusted cool and stale over America's flushed skin.
America's fingers curled into him harder, and his hips and legs and the muscles in his stomach all trembled beneath him, and there was a silence of several seconds before America gave an unvocalized, exhaled laugh, and shook his head. His thumb caressed down the channel of bone behind Russia's ear, to the corner of his jaw. Russia tilted his head into America's hand, nuzzling, and the corner of his mouth quirked upwards in a shaky little smile.
His hands shivered over America's sides; his fingers trailed into the hollows of his ribs. They fell further, then, to grip his hips. Russia bussed his cheek against the inside of America's left thigh and nipped at the skin, before taking him deep into his mouth. He breathed heavily through his nose, dragged his tongue slowly up America's length.
America made a weak, stuck sound in his throat, and he squeezed his eyes shut and let out a jerking breath. He worked his fingers back into Russia's hair, not pulling, or forcing, just...feeling, working the locks and strands between his knuckles and fingertips. His back was bowed, strung tight and twinging now and then. Russia reached up, and, after a moment of searching, found America's hand and twined their fingers together.
His mind had gone blank, white, and that was--that was all right, because he didn't need to think. America clung to him until his knuckles were pale, and for a while it was just taste, and shape, and America twitching and arching and catching his breath and making feeble, helpless sounds in answer to everything Russia did. Some time later, and he had no idea how long it was, he felt a tug, on his hand, up, and a gentler one in his hair. America was flushed, everywhere, his hair was rucked into a wild spray, and he shivered in irregular little waves. He had an expression Russia wasn't sure if he had ever seen on anyone's face before. It turned his stomach in knots, sharp and sudden.
He let America urge him up the line of his body, and he dragged his hands over every inch of it as he went, memorizing the little twitches and whimpers. He propped himself up on his arms, framed America's face with his elbows. Those eyes, staring up at him like that, so serious and…glaring at him, almost, they were so vivid, so present. He stopped himself before a delighted smile could catch on his lips, and leaned in to kiss the bridge of America's nose, the high ridges of his cheeks. America's drew his knee up, along Russia's side, and his skin was hot against Russia's waist and hips.
And then, America...cautiously, breath held, without breaking eye contact, scored his fingernails up Russia's ribcage. Four red lines flared down his side.
Russia hissed, then tilted his head, held America's eyes. After a moment, he brought down his hand dragged his nails down America's chest, all the way to his belly. America shivered from the back of his neck on down. America's eyes widened, his eyebrows rose, but it wasn't--exactly surprise. Russia wasn't sure what to call it, but he had seen that look before.
He stared down at America, and his thoughts flew back, years ago, to the buffalo hunt. He remembered sinking his teeth into America's palm, remembered America going wide-eyed, rigid. And so Russia shifted his arms, put more weight on them, and leaned down to draw his mouth over America's chest. It was gentle at first, a graze of lips on skin--but when America arched into it, Russia bit him, hard.
The sound America made, an open-mouthed, vocalized gasp, sent a bolt of something hot and tight from the back of his throat to his groin.
America's hands clawed between his shoulder blades, and he hitched his leg over Russia's hip. It took a few unsteady, chest-heaving seconds for the younger nation to collect the wherewithal to drop his head and bite down the line of his shoulder, leaving a neat row of teeth imprints in Russia's skin. Russia groaned, bucked against America's thigh. His mouth trailed up, over America's collarbone to his neck, and his teeth closed on fragile skin. He wrapped a hand around America's erection and stroked him slowly. Little beads of blood prickled open on America's throat, and Russia lapped them up.
America was tangled around him, panting, with his head pitched back and his hips nudging into Russia's hand, and his leg braced against the bed to grind upwards. He swallowed convulsively every few seconds, and his throat dropped and surged against Russia's mouth. "Christ." It was the only thing America could get out through grit teeth.
Russia's thoughts stumbled. The knowledge that he could do this, that he could have this effect on America, on America, was incandescent. He bit his way back to the corner of the other nation's jaw, prayed for a bruise with every gasp that lunged past America's lips. He swiped his thumb over the head of America's cock, squeezed, just a little.
America whined, and the base of his spine twisted against the bed. Then; "God, put me out of my misery, already," with a tiny laugh embedded in his ragged breath. It was like before, delivered to sound like a joke, but--that edge in his voice was a, was a threat, desperate and hungry and it promised that if Russia even thought about stopping now--
America bit down on Russia's shoulder, sudden, so hard that blood oozed to the surface, and Russia's breath slammed to a halt in his lungs. America traced his lips across the seam of blood, so they glittered red, and then he licked them clean. His eyes caught Russia's, and he still had that--look, that indefinable look, but it had grown, now, almost turned into something else altogether.
Russia stared at him. He suddenly wanted access to this side of America, always, often--it was too feral, too gorgeous to hide away. He kissed him, plunging his tongue into his mouth, tasted his own blood, in America's mouth-- He clawed at the back of America's neck with his free hand. His wrist twisted, sharply, and his fingers tightened, stroking him in quick, desperate jerks. America groaned, his hips bucked upwards--and then his hand snapped around Russia's wrist, stopped him, with unexpected, terrible strength.
America wasn't playing, now, and that threat had grown. "Not...what I meant," he bit out through clenched teeth. His grip on Russia's wrist was going to leave bruises. The timbre of his voice had changed, dropped low, and Russia froze, thrilled.
A sharp, knowing smile curled around the edges of his mouth, and he yanked his hand out of America's grip. He brought two fingers up to his mouth and licked them, slowly, never breaking eye contact with America. "Is this--" he dropped his slick fingers to the cleft of his ass and pressed in, just a little, "What you meant?"
America grimaced his eyes shut and stretched down into his hand in response. His hands knotted into the bedclothes, tightened and relaxed in response to every twinge and shift. Russia's thoughts broke apart--again--and then he was curling his fingers inside of him, working America open. Russia could barely keep himself from--from--he didn't know what, but there was a hot, tight coil of emotion building in his gut, and it burned.
His lips brushed over America's stomach and hips, lingered at the tender join of his thigh. America answered with harsh, goading sounds, and he propped himself up on his elbow so he could reach down and clench his hand in Russia's hair, twist. He bore down, fucked himself on Russia's hand. It was...Russia didn't want to pull away, and so he kept his hand in place as he struggled out of his clothing. Another sharp snap of his wrist, and America's back arched.
He removed his fingers, suddenly, and tugged America close, hot and flush against his body. His face nudged into the crook of his shoulder, and Russia sucked in a hard breath as he thrust into him.
(Warmth)
Russia went still, clutching at him, breath coming in harsh pants. He heard, "Fuck--" and America's arms snapped around his back and dragged him down harder. America's whole body was rigid, locked, Russia could feel his tension and his crashing waves of heat as he struggled to adjust. Russia couldn't--couldn't bring himself to move, not with America writhing and flushed beneath him, shuddering and grasping at him, leaving sweat-damp finger marks on his shoulders and his sides. He pulled back, a little, so he could look at America, so he could see this. America's whole body stuttered, slowly relaxed, and he hitched his legs higher. Russia ground into him, once, slowly, and America made a rough, quiet sound deep in his chest. It was--pained, but--when those July noon eyes swept open and fixed on his, America shifted under him, deeper under him, and that beautiful mouth tugged into a challenging little grin. He arched his neck up and bit Russia on the curve of his jaw.
Russia let out a soft moan and curled his fingers into America's hair, held their faces inches apart. He pressed a kiss to the other nation's forehead and began to thrust into him, slow, at first, and hyper-aware of every fractional shift. "You--" he whispered. He had opened his mouth fully intending to say something, but that smile--his hand clenched involuntarily into America's skin.
America's lips made the shape of a word in confirmation: You.
He buried one hand in Russia's hair and held his head as he was, so they were staring at each other, while the heat--and the pressure--and they both breathed harsh, loud and ragged--and America's heel dug into the small of his back and bore him in. Russia thrust harder, rougher. He wanted to drop his eyes, he realized. He swept his free hand over the flat plain of America's stomach to grip his erection. His fingers went slick with perspiration and precum. America's hips arched off the mattress, and Russia's breath caught at the sudden change, the angle...His eyelids fluttered.
Little vocal shudders crept out of America's throat every time Russia's weight bore him down. His arms skidded down over Russia's sides, to his waist, to the corners of his hips--his fingers dug in, and he used him as leverage to jerk up to meet his thrusts. America was flinching from that eye contact, too, now, his gaze flickering to Russia's eyelashes, eyebrows, the hollows of his cheek, the cold beads of sweat on his temples, then back to his eyes--he always came back. Russia almost released him, almost looked away, to let America follow suit-- But everything, the heat, the friction, the, the in, yes, ohGod--
…Everything was secondary to this: this softly glowing thing that hung in the air between them.
America peeled one hand off his hip, wrenched it up to cup the line of Russia's face, fast, like it hurt not to touch him. He drew Russia down, until their foreheads touched. America rose in his field of view with every deep thrust. Russia flicked the ends of his sweat-soaked hair out of his eyes and fixed his gaze to America's, and America wasn't trying to look away anymore, either. His fingernails curled into the soft trench before Russia's ear. His breath came short and quick between his teeth and across his parted lips.
His chest hurt, suddenly, something clenched around his heart and squeezed, and in all the long years they had known one another, Russia had never wanted to kiss America so badly. He shuddered, hard, and covered America's lips with his; and then he went rigid, and still, and groaned into his mouth. His fingers twisted in the other nation's hair and his eyes clenched shut as he came.
America swallowed his trembled breath; he cupped Russia's face into him and kissed him deeper, he propped himself up on his shoulder blades to put strength behind it. Russia whimpered. His hand tightened around him, and gave a few sharp jerks. America broke away with a thin, thready whine of need, and his hips arched tightly into his hand. And then that fragile sound broke apart, swelled into a rushed gasp which stopped halfway into his lungs, and America froze, hopelessly tangled against him. Russia worked an arm under his back, held him up as little shocks wrenched through him.
Several long, warm and twitching seconds passed before America let out a long breath. The knot in Russia's gut unspooled a bit as he started dropping feather-light kisses over America's face and hair.
America ran his fingertips back through Russia's hair and halted him, guided him back down into a tender, just-touching kiss. Russia fumbled for the other nation's hand, folded their fingers together, and shifted up just enough to pull out, as gently as he could. They both sucked down air in tiny gasps.
His damp hair fell across his eyes, again, and he brushed it back with their joined hands. America raised his head and kissed the inside of his wrist. He kept kissing, downwards, from just beneath the the rise of Russia's palm, over the pallid and sensitive skin to a third of the way down his forearm. Each kiss was flush, warm, lingered over, like he meant every one. Russia made a soft sound and savored the little shocks that went from America's mouth all the way to his spine. Russia rested his cheek in the curve of the other nation's shoulder, and felt a sleepy, disbelieving smile curl at the corners of his mouth.
America fumbled to one side and recovered the kicked-away blankets, and he tugged them up over Russia's shoulders. He slid his arm around Russia's waist, and caressed upwards almost to his shoulder--with flattened fingertips, not with his nails. It was--possessive, and Russia shivered.
"I don't want to fall asleep, yet," America gave a breathless little laugh.
Russia chuckled. He turned his head, pressed a kiss against America's collarbone, then stifled a yawn with the back of his wrist. "I'm afraid I might not be able to oblige you," he murmured. "But--America--" the name was there as decoration--he just wanted to say it. "What would you like to do in the mean time?"
America tightened his arm around him and shifted, rolled them onto their sides, and then propped himself up on his elbow and pushed Russia down onto his back, without ever letting go of his hand. The blankets were all pulled aside, again, so he fixed those first, and then he folded over Russia, one leg spanning his hips. He rained kisses over his face. Russia could feel America's heart racing. "I've wanted to do that since--" he kissed the hollows of Russia's eyes, his cheeks, the corner of his mouth, "Since--I don't know--" back across his jawline, into his hair, "Since like, the eighteen fifties, I guess? A while."
"A long time," Russia agreed. He tipped his face up into America's kisses, and smiled at those eyes, clear and immediate without the glasses.
The glasses--the 1850s--he remembered the first time he'd seen them, glinting over him against a glowing white sky. He had been--upset, in a vague, opium-laced way. A foolish thing to care about, really, but the flare of--of hurt was sudden in his memory.
He frowned. America paused in his attentions and blinked down at him. "Mm?"
Russia felt caught. His legs shifted in the silence, tangled into America's. "Nothing."
America tipped his head, and his eyebrows drew together in concern. His hand tightened around Russia's. "What is it?"
Russia sighed, and decided that not hearing that anxiety in America's voice was worth a sliver of his pride. "I was remembering the first time I saw you with your glasses, and how--how strange it was."
America relaxed again, and his expression shifted from worry to puzzlement. He smiled tentatively. "What's so strange about them? Lots of nations wear glasses."
"I know. But you aren't 'lots of nations.'" He knew America wasn't going to leave it at that, and so he saved them both the time. "When we met, what did I tell you? Besides the things about Catherine...And France."
America paused, looked at him for a second. And then he smiled shyly and dipped his head, hid against the curve of Russia's shoulder. "You said I had beautiful eyes," he murmured.
Russia turned and caught America's chin gently between his fingers, tipped his face up. "I did," he said softly. "And you do."
Russia kissed him then, light, brief, and then pulled back to take another look at him. America blushed in the darkness, but he was still smiling, and a few seconds later he lay down in the crook of Russia's arm and turned his face and eyes up, offering himself for inspection. He looked--embarrassed, still, but...pleased, too.
"And this," Russia whispered, brushing his lips over America's flushed cheek. It was strange to finally say all these things--meaningless things, that wouldn't help either of them--but it was...a relief, too, somehow. "Do you know how long it's been since I've seen another nation blush?"
"I've seen you blush," America glanced away with a little smile. He twined his fingers into the ends of Russia's hair.
Russia exhaled on a laugh, and traced his fingers lightly down America's ribs. "And it's been your fault, every time." He paused. "Like the laudanum." He leaned down, lips ghosting over the shell of America's ear, and breathed, "Which was it, America? Did I let you cut my clothes off for a mouthful of sugar water?"
America's smile broadened in evident delight. "Has that been bothering you all this time?" he asked deliberately.
"On and off." As long as they were curled up together, naked, it was probably best to be honest.
America pulled back and clasped his forearm around the back of Russia's head, and tipped their foreheads together. God, that smile. "No, you weren't drugged. It was just ethanol solution, so maybe you were a little drunk. Wait--I really don't think you could get drunk off a sip of ethanol..."
Russia dropped his eyes, and tried not to grin. He pinched America's side. "Brat."
America kissed his forehead, his cheek, his mouth. "Hey, you enjoyed it."
A long silence. Then: "So...when you bit me, I had the coordination to hit you--and I didn't."
"Mm-hmm."
"You were very lucky," Russia murmured, and nipped at his earlobe.
America nuzzled his head into his shoulder and hiked the blankets up with a happy sigh. "Yeah. I know."
---
America left four days later. The cot was not used again. They had found a new way to fill those awkward silences; whenever one descended, America threw him a smile, and shook his head, and climbed onto the bed, over him, and those warm fingers found their way across his ribs, or into his hair, and then somehow their positions would reverse, and...
It wasn't the happiest Russia had ever felt. There had been greater and more joyful victories. But it was the most of...something, that he had ever felt.
America left discreetly through the kitchen entrance, and there was no sadness when Russia saw him off. America smiled and tugged straight the ends of Russia's scarf, and said, "Seriously, you have to take care of yourself."
"Yes, I know. I will." He took his scarf out of America's hands and fixed it himself.
"It, uh. It might be a while before we're allowed to see each other again. My government's still not, um...likely to recognize yours, for a while."
The kind of silence that yesterday would have meant Russia would cage America gently against the wall, but now--he returned his smile, brushed a few strands of hair off of America's forehead, and nodded. "I know."
America brightened. "But, when they do--" he caught Russia's hand. "We can decide what we want to...you know. What we want to do, about all this."
These were all good things to say, it was important that America was saying them, but Russia didn't feel a need to add anything of his own. He just cupped America's jaw with his free hand, and placed across his mouth a last, tender, lingering kiss.
A warm sigh escaped both of them when it ended. America blinked his eyes open, and murmured, "So, I'll see you whenever, I guess?"
Russia took half a step back. "You will. Stay safe, until then. Try not to be seen on your way out."
America rolled his eyes and found the doorknob behind him. "Yeah, yeah."
Russia felt a sudden tightening in his ribs, and he badly wanted to add I'll miss you--but--surely, that went without saying.
And then the door clicked open, and banged shut, and America was gone.
+++
--The Russian Famine of 1921 (known in Russia as the Povolzhye Famine) began in the early spring of that year and lasted through 1922, and claimed an estimated five to seven million lives. It was a result of seven years of war on Russian soil; agricultural disruption, primarily as a result of war communism and particularly prodrazvyorstka; and a severe drought which aggravated the situation to the level of a national catastrophe. While the communist government did not officially solicit or accept humanitarian aid, they established a committee of individuals with no clear Party affiliation to manage charitable donations.
--The Russian Famine Relief Act of 1921 authorized the expenditure of $20,000,000 for the purchase of American foodstuffs to send to the Soviet Union. The United States was far and away the largest contributor of humanitarian aid to the Soviet Union during this crisis, feeding an estimated ten million people: for comparison purposes, Great Britain, the second largest contributor, fed approximately 375,000.
--There was hope in the United States that the humanitarian gesture would lead to a lasting improvement in relations with the Soviet government. However, when Stalin came to power, Soviet school textbooks omitted all reference to the American contribution, and it became a crime to say that the Soviet Union had ever accepted outside aid to sustain the needs of its people.
+++
This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.
Author: wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Russia/America
Summary: 1922: Despite the cessation of diplomatic contact, American aid pours into Russia in his time of need. America camps out at Russia's house to take care of him, and to those of you who stopped reading the instant you saw the rating: the answer to your question is yes, they do.
Hi all! wizzard890 is still on vacation, but like the Red Menace, TCE marches on! I'll be posting one of our stockpiled fics every 4-5 days while she's away. This one goes on her journal, so the distribution of joint posts remains equitable while she's away. -PyrrhicComedy
---
Russia's house. August, 1922.
This wasn't like the last time Russia went hungry.
Instead of marching up to the front door and pounding on the knocker, America crept around to the kitchen entrance. He checked every few seconds to make sure he wasn't being watched. He quietly let himself in with the key Russia had mailed to him, and as soon as he was inside, he snapped shut the blinds on the window. Russia wasn't supposed to let him in, but...technically he hadn't, so...
So, that was okay.
He set down his groceries on the counter and dropped his suitcase by the door. Cupboard and pantry doors and shelves hung open and exposed nothing but dust and dead cobwebs. Even the spiders went hungry here. He unwound his scarf, unbuttoned his coat, lay them both over a chair. The house was cold, and so silent he thought he could hear the paint peeling on the windowsill.
He tiptoed out into the main entryway. He called, hesitantly, "Russia?" and there was no answer, but he found his friend collapsed on the staircase, wound around his cramped stomach in a shivering sleep. America made himself remember to breathe. He knelt half-over him, pulled him up by his shoulders, and breathed "Russia, it's me--"
--Russia stirred, and made a quiet sound that just meant 'yes, I see that'--
--And he gathered him up and carried him in to his room. He bit his lip as hard as he could stand it to stop himself from thinking about how light Russia had become.
He started a fire, and put on a thick soup, and he found a rollaway bed tucked in a closet in one of the empty bedrooms. He moved it into the corner of Russia's room, close enough to the fire so that he could tend it in the night. He brought up his suitcase and arranged his things into little piles in the corner. Russia twitched around his hunger pangs and made the saddest sounds America had ever heard.
He stayed there for six weeks.
When Russia woke up, he pressed food on him. When he slept, America watched him, tried to catch up on his reading and paperwork and schematics but mostly just watched, unable to swallow sometimes around the fear that Russia might stop breathing as soon as he looked away. When Russia mumbled about the cold, or the heat, America built up or damped down the fire. They barely spoke. Russia was too weak, and America couldn't think of anything to say besides "Oh God, please eat something."
Most nights he climbed into bed beside him without a word, and held him and stroked him like he would a scared dog, or a child, keeping him warm and soothing him through hunger pangs that broke him around his stomach. When Russia passed limp into an exhausted sleep, with his fingers feebly tangled into the front of America's shirt, America stayed awake as long as he could, to listen for the first hitched breath of Russia's nightmares.
He tried not to blame himself for feeling…gratified, a little, when he woke Russia out of them, and Russia held on to him as tight as he could, and pushed his face into the curve of America's neck. It wasn't that he liked seeing Russia scared--he hated that part. But…it was just…
It was so nice to know that he was making Russia feel better. Safer.
When Russia started to recover, that's when things got tricky. It was wonderful to see him on his feet again, those hollows in his eyes and wrists filling out, and genuine smiles twinging around the corners of his mouth, but when Russia started feeling better, he wanted to be all the way better, immediately, and America ended up pushing him down into bed two or three times a day. He'd forgotten that Russia was a terrible patient. He threatened to tie him down. Russia knew he was bluffing. He thought about doing it for real, but things were still maybe a little too awkward between them for that. Because, by that point, they were talking, and it was great, but sometimes…they had these silences, because…
Well, it wasn't because they couldn't think of anything to say. But sometimes it was hard to think of anything to say that…wasn't about communism, or war debts, or Jews, or anti-communism, or Russia's boss, or America's boss, or--even the famine, just that could turn into a touchy subject so fast it made his head spin.
The awkward silence was a new addition to their conversations. America hoped it wouldn't last.
But when they did find a safe subject, it was as easy to talk to each other as ever, and when Russia had bad dreams, he still held on to America, and when America made him feel safe, Russia still smiled at him. Things like that were…such a relief, every time, they made it hard for America to catch his breath. He didn't sleep in Russia's bed anymore, now that he was mostly healthy, but those wretched little noises he made stirred America out of sleep from across the room, and he stumbled across the freezing hardwood floor to kneel by the side of Russia's bed, and catch him awake by the shoulder, and stroke his hair and make soothing noises and ignore the cold seeping through his pajamas and into his knees because--because Russia needed him, and if America was there for him, right then, then nothing else that was going on in the world would matter.
---
Suffocating cold, and blood.
Blood, soaking across the wasteland, sopping into the grey earth, curling under roots of blackened, wizened trees. Russia's boots were soaked with it. He'd fallen, twice, buried his hands in mud and gore to support himself. The wind burned across his face, chapped his lips, and he couldn't seem to close his eyes against it.
This used to be a field, an endless field. And they might have been people, those burst-open things sprawled across the ground and hung like ornaments in the trees, before rot and damp had burrowed into them, bred maggots under their ribs and fungus in their eyes. Now they had popped like steamed clams, and the white sick swelled out of them and sank into the dead earth, too.
Then, suddenly, a figure was beside him. It was an wizened, coal-blackened old woman. But it wasn't an old woman. It was a leper, every inch of skin swaddled in bandages, and tar leaked and dribbled out between them. But it wasn't a leper. It was a thing made out of shadows, the deep and inky shadows that are cast by the brightest light. But it wasn't that, either.
It stared at him a long moment, and held out two crabbed hands, talons. They were wet with blood, or tar. There was no color to anything, and Russia couldn't tell. He staggered back. "Leave me alone!"
The twisted thing took his face between its claws, left a soaking print on his cheeks. "You are."
It reared back, and it was taller than Russia, taller than the trees, growing; it filled the sky, swallowed up the field, blocked out the stars. Blood began to rain from its fingers, pour from its mouth, and he was drowning, screaming until the hideous, freezing tide surged, rose, and finally swallowed him up. He convulsed, he vomited--he vomited tar, and he realized, he realized, that that thing was him--
"--sia--" It was dark and cold, then, and something had his arm, something had his arm--he shook violently at it and gasped open on a scream. He heard "Russia!" and that hand closed around his shoulder again. "Russia, wake up!"
He snapped his eyes open. Rafters. Dim and far away, but real. His own rafters, he realized...And his own bed, and his own sheets, and--Cold sweat clung to the small of his back, sticky, and he shouted again, astonished and skin crawling.
"Hey, shhh..." He felt the mattress shift down towards the edge of the bed, and he felt clumsy, warm fingers on his face, in his hair. "Hey, it's me, it was just a dream--I'm here--"
Russia scrambled back, and the sharp movement drew the quilts tight over his chest and the base of his throat. He heaved, twisted frantic hands in the bedclothes. Suffocating, he was suffocating again, and his neck... Another scream, louder this time and more wretched.
"Russia--" America crawled onto the bed after him, pushed the covers down, pulled Russia against him. "Wake up, wake up, it's okay, it's me--" America's arm closed around his shoulders, and his other hand stroked through his hair. "Shh, shh, shh..."
Awareness flooded over him. His heart raced, he was shaking, but it was all right--it was all right: he was here. Nothing was going to happen while he was here. He buried his face against America's chest (warm) and curled his fingers into the front of his shirt. A helpless sound limped out of him.
"Easy..." America murmured, and his thumb rubbed up and down the edge of Russia's shoulder. He shifted down, into the bed, so Russia could curl up to him closer. He tugged the blankets straight around them both, and Russia felt light kisses pressing into his hair. "It's okay, everything is okay. You're safe." His breath was warm, his hands and his voice were all warm. "You're safe now, I've got you."
"I-I woke you, didn't I?" He tilted his chin up as much as he dared--the line of his throat was still prickling with phantom touches--and squinted through the darkness for America's face. "I'm sorry..."
"Don't be stupid." America combed Russia's sweat-damp hair out of his face and kissed his forehead. "I'm here to take care of you, remember?" A gentle squeeze around his shoulders.
Russia dropped his eyes. "You shouldn't even be here," he mumbled. He wouldn't insult America by amending that sentence to include an I'm fine.
"Shhh," America returned, with finality. His fingertips found the ends of Russia's hair again. "You want to tell me what it was about? It might make you feel better."
A flash of shame winced through his body. America was--too good, too golden, for things like this. But his lips parted against his will, and he told him, halting and afraid. He paused and looked up, every few minutes, a cringe around his eyes, waiting for America to be disgusted with him, to push him away, but America just caressed his hairline with the backs of his fingers and waited for more. When Russia's hesitation lingered, he took the opportunity to brush a kiss over his cheekbones. Russia felt himself relax, a little, felt his hands unclenching in America's shirt, until, by the time he reached the end--
I drowned in my own blood.
--He was breathing steadily again, and he could believe America when he said that it was just a dream.
America pulled back a little and smiled at him when he finished. "That's dumb. I wouldn't let you drown."
Russia rubbed his forehead gently against America's collarbone. He felt limber in his arms. "You can't be in my dreams, too." Not--not ones like that, at any rate.
"I could be," America replied loftily. "If you weren't such a prick about letting me help you out."
Russia gave a soft laugh.
"I bet I could beat that tar-monster up, too."
"You'd try, wouldn't you." Russia pulled away an inch, just to look at him.
"'Course. Monsters are for beating up."
"I would let you, but my boss doesn't want me accepting your charity."
America blew out an exasperated little breath and knuckled Russia's scalp. "Not officially, anyhow. Sneaking around with all the curtains drawn like this for the past few weeks...people are gonna think you've taken a mistress or something, you know that?"
Russia snorted. "Maybe I should. She might not insist on sleeping on a cot." Teasing, that was all. The leftover adrenaline was making him dizzy.
"Who's insisting?" America returned flippantly. But his hands had gone still, on Russia's shoulder, in his hair.
The tone had changed, in the space of a few seconds. "I don't know," Russia replied, and he smiled carefully. "It just seems like a waste of half a bed. But you capitalists are so wasteful."
"I thought you wanted me over there," America said, and he was smiling, too, but that wasn't--wasn't a joke. His voice was pitched to make it sound like it was, but he was actually just saying...
He felt like he was stepping into cold water, inching deeper. America's chest was a solid warmth against the side of his face, and he listened to his heart pound and tried not to think. "What gave you that idea?"
"Um...I-I don't know, actually..." America's light voice encompassed a breathless tremor. His fingers crooked into Russia's hair. "I guess it just...seemed kinda, what's that word, presumptuous to assume otherwise..."
"So England and France managed to teach you something about manners after all." Just words to fill up the silence; Russia forgot them the moment they left his mouth.
"Manners…is that what they're calling it these days," America returned weakly.
Russia thought of monsters and nightmares and dead earth soaked in blood. He thought of being woken up by the same frantic voice more times than he could count.
Charity...
There was a brief silence. He turned his head, slowly, and began pressing kisses against each of America's knuckles. "It is," he whispered.
America went still. Then, after a long hesitation, he kissed a crown into Russia's hair. His hand unfolded against the back of Russia's head and slid, in small jerks, down his back, between his shoulder blades. Russia turned America's hand over and nuzzled into his palm, let his tongue dart lightly over the webbing of skin between his thumb and forefinger.
America drew in a sharp, quiet breath. He shifted, a little--into Russia. Such a small change, they could both pretend it was an accident. America's nails curled in, just a taste, and scored faint lines down a span of his back, then back up, then down again. His kisses brought him to Russia's forehead, and he dropped his head a moment to touch his lips to Russia's temple.
Russia moved closer, because he needed to stretch, and the quilt was tangled around his legs, and America's new position forced him to adjust his weight, and, and--Something shivered through him, settled warm in his chest. His skin tingled under America's nails, and he closed his eyes, brought the hand he'd been kissing down to rest on his hip. The faint rush of warm air told him how far to move, and he nudged his mouth blindly against America's.
America's hand spasmed shut on his hip, and a soft sound fled out of him--"Ah." He swallowed, and tilted his chin down, to kiss back.
The kiss remained gentle, tentative, even as Russia opened his mouth against America, let his fingers come up to tangle in his hair. It was--not frightening, because frightening was a dream he couldn't wake up from; frightening was seeing his people as thin as the stalks of wheat which refused to grow. This was something else.
His breath hitched on a half-gasp as America began tracing circles against the sharp jut of his hip.
America arched his neck, pressed his head, his hair, against Russia's hands, and at the same time kissed from the corner of Russia's mouth to the swell of his lower lip, touched, traced his tongue across it. His chest rose and fell on short, shallow breaths, and his hand beneath the blanket followed the curve of his hipbone from top to bottom, from the soft dip at the lowest part of his side, to the hollow at the join of his thigh. His fingers were splayed, strong and warm. He was almost trembling.
Russia rose beneath America's hand. His nails carded through America's hair, dug lightly into his scalp; his hand dropped lower, to the spur of bone at the base of his skull, and urged him in, flush, hot. He couldn't straighten out his thoughts, but he managed, after some effort, to push America's name through his teeth; a question, a permission.
America let out a harsh breath, and he scrambled down, so they were level with each other. He made a quiet sound as he threaded his arm around Russia's waist, and shrugged a leg over his hips and pulled them fast together. Their mouths were quick and hot. Russia fought to catch his breath.
His fingers fell to the front of America's shirt and picked at the buttons. His tongue flicked at the edges of America's lips, mapped them out, memorized them, and he rolled his hips lightly against him. America jerked, and his leg tightened. He fumbled his arms out of his sleeves as soon as Russia had his night shirt open. Then America was running his hands up over his skin, and--Russia thought for an instant that he was still too thin, but America didn't seem repulsed. The younger nation curled up into him, and his bare skin was scalding warm against Russia's chest.
Russia splayed his hand against America's belly, dragged it lower. He came to a halt at America's waistband, and Russia's fingers curled into the fabric, knuckles pressing into hot skin. America bit his lip, not too hard but...not precisely gentle, either, and his stomach muscles clenched and his hips rose an inch towards Russia's hand.
America's fingernails trickled all the way down the bed of his spine, until his fingertips could press into the small of Russia's back and push him in as he rocked up against him. Russia groaned against America's mouth, and then he pushed America's pajama pants down his legs. He wet his lips and moved in the same direction, dropping brief, hot kisses over America's abdomen, the hollows of his hips, his thighs--parts of him that Russia had never been able to touch like this. His eyes slid shut, and then he shifted up, just a bit, and pressed a kiss against America's cock.
An abrupt, ragged intake of air, at that, like America had surfaced suddenly from underwater, and his spine arched off the bed. He still had one hand locked in Russia's hair, and the other dug into his shoulder, raised faint red crescents on his skin. "Russia." His voice was thick.
"Yes?" Russia could only manage it once, and if America didn't catch it--and he might not have, the word was breathless, caught on nerves--he wasn't going to be able to repeat himself. He didn't move. His breath gusted cool and stale over America's flushed skin.
America's fingers curled into him harder, and his hips and legs and the muscles in his stomach all trembled beneath him, and there was a silence of several seconds before America gave an unvocalized, exhaled laugh, and shook his head. His thumb caressed down the channel of bone behind Russia's ear, to the corner of his jaw. Russia tilted his head into America's hand, nuzzling, and the corner of his mouth quirked upwards in a shaky little smile.
His hands shivered over America's sides; his fingers trailed into the hollows of his ribs. They fell further, then, to grip his hips. Russia bussed his cheek against the inside of America's left thigh and nipped at the skin, before taking him deep into his mouth. He breathed heavily through his nose, dragged his tongue slowly up America's length.
America made a weak, stuck sound in his throat, and he squeezed his eyes shut and let out a jerking breath. He worked his fingers back into Russia's hair, not pulling, or forcing, just...feeling, working the locks and strands between his knuckles and fingertips. His back was bowed, strung tight and twinging now and then. Russia reached up, and, after a moment of searching, found America's hand and twined their fingers together.
His mind had gone blank, white, and that was--that was all right, because he didn't need to think. America clung to him until his knuckles were pale, and for a while it was just taste, and shape, and America twitching and arching and catching his breath and making feeble, helpless sounds in answer to everything Russia did. Some time later, and he had no idea how long it was, he felt a tug, on his hand, up, and a gentler one in his hair. America was flushed, everywhere, his hair was rucked into a wild spray, and he shivered in irregular little waves. He had an expression Russia wasn't sure if he had ever seen on anyone's face before. It turned his stomach in knots, sharp and sudden.
He let America urge him up the line of his body, and he dragged his hands over every inch of it as he went, memorizing the little twitches and whimpers. He propped himself up on his arms, framed America's face with his elbows. Those eyes, staring up at him like that, so serious and…glaring at him, almost, they were so vivid, so present. He stopped himself before a delighted smile could catch on his lips, and leaned in to kiss the bridge of America's nose, the high ridges of his cheeks. America's drew his knee up, along Russia's side, and his skin was hot against Russia's waist and hips.
And then, America...cautiously, breath held, without breaking eye contact, scored his fingernails up Russia's ribcage. Four red lines flared down his side.
Russia hissed, then tilted his head, held America's eyes. After a moment, he brought down his hand dragged his nails down America's chest, all the way to his belly. America shivered from the back of his neck on down. America's eyes widened, his eyebrows rose, but it wasn't--exactly surprise. Russia wasn't sure what to call it, but he had seen that look before.
He stared down at America, and his thoughts flew back, years ago, to the buffalo hunt. He remembered sinking his teeth into America's palm, remembered America going wide-eyed, rigid. And so Russia shifted his arms, put more weight on them, and leaned down to draw his mouth over America's chest. It was gentle at first, a graze of lips on skin--but when America arched into it, Russia bit him, hard.
The sound America made, an open-mouthed, vocalized gasp, sent a bolt of something hot and tight from the back of his throat to his groin.
America's hands clawed between his shoulder blades, and he hitched his leg over Russia's hip. It took a few unsteady, chest-heaving seconds for the younger nation to collect the wherewithal to drop his head and bite down the line of his shoulder, leaving a neat row of teeth imprints in Russia's skin. Russia groaned, bucked against America's thigh. His mouth trailed up, over America's collarbone to his neck, and his teeth closed on fragile skin. He wrapped a hand around America's erection and stroked him slowly. Little beads of blood prickled open on America's throat, and Russia lapped them up.
America was tangled around him, panting, with his head pitched back and his hips nudging into Russia's hand, and his leg braced against the bed to grind upwards. He swallowed convulsively every few seconds, and his throat dropped and surged against Russia's mouth. "Christ." It was the only thing America could get out through grit teeth.
Russia's thoughts stumbled. The knowledge that he could do this, that he could have this effect on America, on America, was incandescent. He bit his way back to the corner of the other nation's jaw, prayed for a bruise with every gasp that lunged past America's lips. He swiped his thumb over the head of America's cock, squeezed, just a little.
America whined, and the base of his spine twisted against the bed. Then; "God, put me out of my misery, already," with a tiny laugh embedded in his ragged breath. It was like before, delivered to sound like a joke, but--that edge in his voice was a, was a threat, desperate and hungry and it promised that if Russia even thought about stopping now--
America bit down on Russia's shoulder, sudden, so hard that blood oozed to the surface, and Russia's breath slammed to a halt in his lungs. America traced his lips across the seam of blood, so they glittered red, and then he licked them clean. His eyes caught Russia's, and he still had that--look, that indefinable look, but it had grown, now, almost turned into something else altogether.
Russia stared at him. He suddenly wanted access to this side of America, always, often--it was too feral, too gorgeous to hide away. He kissed him, plunging his tongue into his mouth, tasted his own blood, in America's mouth-- He clawed at the back of America's neck with his free hand. His wrist twisted, sharply, and his fingers tightened, stroking him in quick, desperate jerks. America groaned, his hips bucked upwards--and then his hand snapped around Russia's wrist, stopped him, with unexpected, terrible strength.
America wasn't playing, now, and that threat had grown. "Not...what I meant," he bit out through clenched teeth. His grip on Russia's wrist was going to leave bruises. The timbre of his voice had changed, dropped low, and Russia froze, thrilled.
A sharp, knowing smile curled around the edges of his mouth, and he yanked his hand out of America's grip. He brought two fingers up to his mouth and licked them, slowly, never breaking eye contact with America. "Is this--" he dropped his slick fingers to the cleft of his ass and pressed in, just a little, "What you meant?"
America grimaced his eyes shut and stretched down into his hand in response. His hands knotted into the bedclothes, tightened and relaxed in response to every twinge and shift. Russia's thoughts broke apart--again--and then he was curling his fingers inside of him, working America open. Russia could barely keep himself from--from--he didn't know what, but there was a hot, tight coil of emotion building in his gut, and it burned.
His lips brushed over America's stomach and hips, lingered at the tender join of his thigh. America answered with harsh, goading sounds, and he propped himself up on his elbow so he could reach down and clench his hand in Russia's hair, twist. He bore down, fucked himself on Russia's hand. It was...Russia didn't want to pull away, and so he kept his hand in place as he struggled out of his clothing. Another sharp snap of his wrist, and America's back arched.
He removed his fingers, suddenly, and tugged America close, hot and flush against his body. His face nudged into the crook of his shoulder, and Russia sucked in a hard breath as he thrust into him.
(Warmth)
Russia went still, clutching at him, breath coming in harsh pants. He heard, "Fuck--" and America's arms snapped around his back and dragged him down harder. America's whole body was rigid, locked, Russia could feel his tension and his crashing waves of heat as he struggled to adjust. Russia couldn't--couldn't bring himself to move, not with America writhing and flushed beneath him, shuddering and grasping at him, leaving sweat-damp finger marks on his shoulders and his sides. He pulled back, a little, so he could look at America, so he could see this. America's whole body stuttered, slowly relaxed, and he hitched his legs higher. Russia ground into him, once, slowly, and America made a rough, quiet sound deep in his chest. It was--pained, but--when those July noon eyes swept open and fixed on his, America shifted under him, deeper under him, and that beautiful mouth tugged into a challenging little grin. He arched his neck up and bit Russia on the curve of his jaw.
Russia let out a soft moan and curled his fingers into America's hair, held their faces inches apart. He pressed a kiss to the other nation's forehead and began to thrust into him, slow, at first, and hyper-aware of every fractional shift. "You--" he whispered. He had opened his mouth fully intending to say something, but that smile--his hand clenched involuntarily into America's skin.
America's lips made the shape of a word in confirmation: You.
He buried one hand in Russia's hair and held his head as he was, so they were staring at each other, while the heat--and the pressure--and they both breathed harsh, loud and ragged--and America's heel dug into the small of his back and bore him in. Russia thrust harder, rougher. He wanted to drop his eyes, he realized. He swept his free hand over the flat plain of America's stomach to grip his erection. His fingers went slick with perspiration and precum. America's hips arched off the mattress, and Russia's breath caught at the sudden change, the angle...His eyelids fluttered.
Little vocal shudders crept out of America's throat every time Russia's weight bore him down. His arms skidded down over Russia's sides, to his waist, to the corners of his hips--his fingers dug in, and he used him as leverage to jerk up to meet his thrusts. America was flinching from that eye contact, too, now, his gaze flickering to Russia's eyelashes, eyebrows, the hollows of his cheek, the cold beads of sweat on his temples, then back to his eyes--he always came back. Russia almost released him, almost looked away, to let America follow suit-- But everything, the heat, the friction, the, the in, yes, ohGod--
…Everything was secondary to this: this softly glowing thing that hung in the air between them.
America peeled one hand off his hip, wrenched it up to cup the line of Russia's face, fast, like it hurt not to touch him. He drew Russia down, until their foreheads touched. America rose in his field of view with every deep thrust. Russia flicked the ends of his sweat-soaked hair out of his eyes and fixed his gaze to America's, and America wasn't trying to look away anymore, either. His fingernails curled into the soft trench before Russia's ear. His breath came short and quick between his teeth and across his parted lips.
His chest hurt, suddenly, something clenched around his heart and squeezed, and in all the long years they had known one another, Russia had never wanted to kiss America so badly. He shuddered, hard, and covered America's lips with his; and then he went rigid, and still, and groaned into his mouth. His fingers twisted in the other nation's hair and his eyes clenched shut as he came.
America swallowed his trembled breath; he cupped Russia's face into him and kissed him deeper, he propped himself up on his shoulder blades to put strength behind it. Russia whimpered. His hand tightened around him, and gave a few sharp jerks. America broke away with a thin, thready whine of need, and his hips arched tightly into his hand. And then that fragile sound broke apart, swelled into a rushed gasp which stopped halfway into his lungs, and America froze, hopelessly tangled against him. Russia worked an arm under his back, held him up as little shocks wrenched through him.
Several long, warm and twitching seconds passed before America let out a long breath. The knot in Russia's gut unspooled a bit as he started dropping feather-light kisses over America's face and hair.
America ran his fingertips back through Russia's hair and halted him, guided him back down into a tender, just-touching kiss. Russia fumbled for the other nation's hand, folded their fingers together, and shifted up just enough to pull out, as gently as he could. They both sucked down air in tiny gasps.
His damp hair fell across his eyes, again, and he brushed it back with their joined hands. America raised his head and kissed the inside of his wrist. He kept kissing, downwards, from just beneath the the rise of Russia's palm, over the pallid and sensitive skin to a third of the way down his forearm. Each kiss was flush, warm, lingered over, like he meant every one. Russia made a soft sound and savored the little shocks that went from America's mouth all the way to his spine. Russia rested his cheek in the curve of the other nation's shoulder, and felt a sleepy, disbelieving smile curl at the corners of his mouth.
America fumbled to one side and recovered the kicked-away blankets, and he tugged them up over Russia's shoulders. He slid his arm around Russia's waist, and caressed upwards almost to his shoulder--with flattened fingertips, not with his nails. It was--possessive, and Russia shivered.
"I don't want to fall asleep, yet," America gave a breathless little laugh.
Russia chuckled. He turned his head, pressed a kiss against America's collarbone, then stifled a yawn with the back of his wrist. "I'm afraid I might not be able to oblige you," he murmured. "But--America--" the name was there as decoration--he just wanted to say it. "What would you like to do in the mean time?"
America tightened his arm around him and shifted, rolled them onto their sides, and then propped himself up on his elbow and pushed Russia down onto his back, without ever letting go of his hand. The blankets were all pulled aside, again, so he fixed those first, and then he folded over Russia, one leg spanning his hips. He rained kisses over his face. Russia could feel America's heart racing. "I've wanted to do that since--" he kissed the hollows of Russia's eyes, his cheeks, the corner of his mouth, "Since--I don't know--" back across his jawline, into his hair, "Since like, the eighteen fifties, I guess? A while."
"A long time," Russia agreed. He tipped his face up into America's kisses, and smiled at those eyes, clear and immediate without the glasses.
The glasses--the 1850s--he remembered the first time he'd seen them, glinting over him against a glowing white sky. He had been--upset, in a vague, opium-laced way. A foolish thing to care about, really, but the flare of--of hurt was sudden in his memory.
He frowned. America paused in his attentions and blinked down at him. "Mm?"
Russia felt caught. His legs shifted in the silence, tangled into America's. "Nothing."
America tipped his head, and his eyebrows drew together in concern. His hand tightened around Russia's. "What is it?"
Russia sighed, and decided that not hearing that anxiety in America's voice was worth a sliver of his pride. "I was remembering the first time I saw you with your glasses, and how--how strange it was."
America relaxed again, and his expression shifted from worry to puzzlement. He smiled tentatively. "What's so strange about them? Lots of nations wear glasses."
"I know. But you aren't 'lots of nations.'" He knew America wasn't going to leave it at that, and so he saved them both the time. "When we met, what did I tell you? Besides the things about Catherine...And France."
America paused, looked at him for a second. And then he smiled shyly and dipped his head, hid against the curve of Russia's shoulder. "You said I had beautiful eyes," he murmured.
Russia turned and caught America's chin gently between his fingers, tipped his face up. "I did," he said softly. "And you do."
Russia kissed him then, light, brief, and then pulled back to take another look at him. America blushed in the darkness, but he was still smiling, and a few seconds later he lay down in the crook of Russia's arm and turned his face and eyes up, offering himself for inspection. He looked--embarrassed, still, but...pleased, too.
"And this," Russia whispered, brushing his lips over America's flushed cheek. It was strange to finally say all these things--meaningless things, that wouldn't help either of them--but it was...a relief, too, somehow. "Do you know how long it's been since I've seen another nation blush?"
"I've seen you blush," America glanced away with a little smile. He twined his fingers into the ends of Russia's hair.
Russia exhaled on a laugh, and traced his fingers lightly down America's ribs. "And it's been your fault, every time." He paused. "Like the laudanum." He leaned down, lips ghosting over the shell of America's ear, and breathed, "Which was it, America? Did I let you cut my clothes off for a mouthful of sugar water?"
America's smile broadened in evident delight. "Has that been bothering you all this time?" he asked deliberately.
"On and off." As long as they were curled up together, naked, it was probably best to be honest.
America pulled back and clasped his forearm around the back of Russia's head, and tipped their foreheads together. God, that smile. "No, you weren't drugged. It was just ethanol solution, so maybe you were a little drunk. Wait--I really don't think you could get drunk off a sip of ethanol..."
Russia dropped his eyes, and tried not to grin. He pinched America's side. "Brat."
America kissed his forehead, his cheek, his mouth. "Hey, you enjoyed it."
A long silence. Then: "So...when you bit me, I had the coordination to hit you--and I didn't."
"Mm-hmm."
"You were very lucky," Russia murmured, and nipped at his earlobe.
America nuzzled his head into his shoulder and hiked the blankets up with a happy sigh. "Yeah. I know."
---
America left four days later. The cot was not used again. They had found a new way to fill those awkward silences; whenever one descended, America threw him a smile, and shook his head, and climbed onto the bed, over him, and those warm fingers found their way across his ribs, or into his hair, and then somehow their positions would reverse, and...
It wasn't the happiest Russia had ever felt. There had been greater and more joyful victories. But it was the most of...something, that he had ever felt.
America left discreetly through the kitchen entrance, and there was no sadness when Russia saw him off. America smiled and tugged straight the ends of Russia's scarf, and said, "Seriously, you have to take care of yourself."
"Yes, I know. I will." He took his scarf out of America's hands and fixed it himself.
"It, uh. It might be a while before we're allowed to see each other again. My government's still not, um...likely to recognize yours, for a while."
The kind of silence that yesterday would have meant Russia would cage America gently against the wall, but now--he returned his smile, brushed a few strands of hair off of America's forehead, and nodded. "I know."
America brightened. "But, when they do--" he caught Russia's hand. "We can decide what we want to...you know. What we want to do, about all this."
These were all good things to say, it was important that America was saying them, but Russia didn't feel a need to add anything of his own. He just cupped America's jaw with his free hand, and placed across his mouth a last, tender, lingering kiss.
A warm sigh escaped both of them when it ended. America blinked his eyes open, and murmured, "So, I'll see you whenever, I guess?"
Russia took half a step back. "You will. Stay safe, until then. Try not to be seen on your way out."
America rolled his eyes and found the doorknob behind him. "Yeah, yeah."
Russia felt a sudden tightening in his ribs, and he badly wanted to add I'll miss you--but--surely, that went without saying.
And then the door clicked open, and banged shut, and America was gone.
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--The Russian Famine of 1921 (known in Russia as the Povolzhye Famine) began in the early spring of that year and lasted through 1922, and claimed an estimated five to seven million lives. It was a result of seven years of war on Russian soil; agricultural disruption, primarily as a result of war communism and particularly prodrazvyorstka; and a severe drought which aggravated the situation to the level of a national catastrophe. While the communist government did not officially solicit or accept humanitarian aid, they established a committee of individuals with no clear Party affiliation to manage charitable donations.
--The Russian Famine Relief Act of 1921 authorized the expenditure of $20,000,000 for the purchase of American foodstuffs to send to the Soviet Union. The United States was far and away the largest contributor of humanitarian aid to the Soviet Union during this crisis, feeding an estimated ten million people: for comparison purposes, Great Britain, the second largest contributor, fed approximately 375,000.
--There was hope in the United States that the humanitarian gesture would lead to a lasting improvement in relations with the Soviet government. However, when Stalin came to power, Soviet school textbooks omitted all reference to the American contribution, and it became a crime to say that the Soviet Union had ever accepted outside aid to sustain the needs of its people.
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This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.