"Paintball Is For Lovers"
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Title: "Paintball Is For Lovers"
Author: wizzard890
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Russia/America
Rating: PG-13
Summary: America decides to introduce Russia to the glorious world of paintball warfare. (Written for qualapec for the Russia/America comm's Spring Exchange!)
And I Care...Why? It's got paintball in! And cuteness, and America being a shitty driver, and Russia in aviators!
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America skims the truck into the fast lane with a nudge of his wrist on the wheel and a two-and-a-half second alert from his blinker. A furious chorus of horns spills open in their wake, but he doesn’t turn around, doesn’t curse, just settles his glasses a little higher on his nose and beams a smile into the passenger seat. “Welcome to the Seventeen. One of the worst interstates I have, I swear to God.”
“I am beginning to see very little difference between your worst highways and your best ones,” Russia replies, jerks his seatbelt a touch looser across his chest.
America can hear the little quote marks clipping in around best and worst. He rolls his eyes, and watches the tiny red pointer of the speedometer nudge closer and closer to ninety. “Yeah, well, either way they get us where we’re going. That’s worth a couple assholes in Hummers, huh?”
“I suppose.” Russia skims his hand beneath where America’s is resting on the gear shift, and lifts a perspiring glass bottle of Coke from the cup rest. He examines the last shivering half-inch of soda. “Did you still want this?”
“All yours.”
He empties the bottle in a single mouthful, makes a face.
America squints into the afternoon sunlight. “Thought soda gave you headaches.”
“It does. There is always too much sugar. But you used our last bottle of water to clean the windshield.”
“Man, I could barely see through it. I always forget how dusty it gets on the trip up here.”
“I was not having any sort of trouble when it was my turn to drive.”
“That’s cause you’re wearing sunglasses, and I can’t.”
Russia gives a conceding little shrug, and seems to lose interest in the conversation, rolling down his window suddenly and gazing out at miles of pine forest.
America takes a deep breath of mountain air, feels it ruffle his hair, brighter and sharper than the canned coolness of the air-conditioner. He steals a glance at Russia, at the glare glinting off his aviator glasses, and huffs on a laugh that gets lost in the wind.
“What is it?” Russia’s voice is very nearly whipped out the window
“Nothing,” America replies. They’re half-shouting, loud enough to be heard over the roar of highway and the rushing air. “You just look good in those glasses, is all.” And then there’s those jeans to think of, and the cotton t-shirt that keeps flattening against Russia’s torso with every fresh, heaving blast of wind...God, why doesn’t Russia skip on the suits all the time?
“I look like a fly.” Russia taps his thumb against the button next to the lock; the window begins its slow trek upwards. His hair is rucked into a ridiculous spray of ashy-white. America has to resist reaching over and smoothing his fingers through it.
“Yeah, that’s what you said when I bought them for you.”
“I also said thank you.”
America snorts and watches the white dashes in the center of the asphalt disappear beneath the hood of the car, over and over again.
Silence, for a while. Forest streaks past the window, broken up every now and then by the chalky red cliffs that loom over the sides of the highway. The sun spends its time slipping behind herds of billowing white clouds, and then peeking out again, throwing barely-there shadows across the tops of the trees.
Finally: “I just want you to know, Russia, as like, a warning--”
“Yes?”
“I am going to kick your ass.”
Russia drums his fingernails on the side of the empty Coke bottle. Ping, ping, ping. “I think not.”
“You’ve never even played before! I’m at a hell of an advantage.”
“I know.”
A green sign appears in the distance, anchored to the right of the interstate just before the treeline. White letters inform them that Flagstaff, Pop. 52, 894 is just a few miles further. America snaps on his blinker, and makes his way back across the highway, two lanes at a time.
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“Wouldn’t it be easier to play without all this armor? They are only rubber bullets, after all.”
“Rubber bullets filled with paint.” America velcros his padded vest shut under his arms, checks his arm guards a final time. “You’ll see. They hurt like a bitch.”
Russia, clad in layers of padded black Kevlar, looks like...well, kinda like Darth Vader, if America really thinks about it. He examines his gun, hefts its weight in his hands. “And people just...run through the trees and pretend to be at war?”
“Something like that.”
“I am very practiced when it comes to being at war, America. Are you sure you want to do this with me?”
America laughs, and pats his pockets, makes sure his extra paint pellets are where they need to be. He surveys the empty forest spread out before them, miles and miles in every direction. “I think I can handle it.”
Both their guns clack as they finish loading.
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A half an hour later, fading sunlight dapples through the tree trunks and catches up a glare along the visor of America’s helmet. He’s shot two logs, and a scrambling in the brush that turned out to be a rabbit--missed her, though.
But Russia is nowhere to be found.
America had expected that Russia would be pretty good at this. Just not...that good. He hasn’t even heard him: no scrape of Kevlar padding as he tries to slip by unnoticed, no crackling in the thick layer of pine needles underfoot. The guy’s a fucking ghost. Like Casper. If Casper was over six feet tall and kind of a dick.
His finger twitches on the trigger guard as he sidles up to another tree. The cloying scent of pine sap makes him blink. Bark rasps against the front of his vest, and it’s as loud as a scream in the encroaching twilight. He winces, and arches away from the trunk. If Russia finds him first, he’s never gonna live it down.
He’s been keeping an eye out for marks from Russia’s bullets, too, just in case he’d slipped up and shot at something that wasn’t America, but he comes up empty handed. Not a fleck of red paint anywhere in the damn forest.
Giving Russia red pellets had seemed a lot funnier back when he thought he’d actually get a chance to see them.
He listens to himself breathe, peers up at the faintness of the moon against the still-sunsplashed sky. The prickling tension between his shoulder blades begins to fade.
A shift, suddenly, in the air behind him.
“Oh, fuck no--”
The words are barely out of his mouth before a snap of pain explodes across the back of his neck, half across plastic, half stinging over his skin where the helmet doesn’t quite cover. Wet--dribbling down past his collar, sticky and cold, and man, paint can feel like blood if a guy’s not paying attention--
America wheels around, scrambles his gun up to his shoulder, and sprays a volley of bullets across Russia’s chest. Ribbons of blue spread and soak up into the front of the other nation’s shirt.
...Wait.
“Where the hell is your gear?” It’s muffled by America’s helmet, but he sees Russia’s eyes light up behind his own visor--the only thing he’s still wearing, Christ--and he dives behind a tree just in time to avoid another rain of red paint.
“Look,” he hollers, “if you ditched all that stuff by your--fuck!” A stray bullet catches his shoulder. He whips over onto one hip, and gets off a shot around the tree trunk. It slams into Russia’s thigh. “If you ditched all that stuff on your own, I’m not gonna take it easy on you!”
No response. He hears air hissing in and out of Russia’s helmet as he breathes.
America folds another row of bullets into the chamber of his gun. “Your call,” he mutters. And with that, he launches himself to his feet and out into the clearing, already shooting.
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“You’re a wreck.”
Russia’s quiet groan disappears into the coarse hotel pillowcase.
America props himself up on his knees, and runs his hand down the curve of Russia’s spine, skims gently over the purpling bruises stained into that pale skin. “Seriously, you look like I tied you up and beat you with a baseball bat.”
“You have bruises too,” Russia mumbles. He arches into America’s touch like a cat, shivering. “I saw them in the shower.”
Russia’s hair is still damp when America leans down to kiss it. “Not as bad as yours, though. ‘Cause I wasn’t the one running around playing paintball in a t-shirt. Seriously, Russia, that was stupid as hell.”
“I kept my helmet on.”
“I said stupid, not suicidal.”
Russia makes a deep, rumbling sound, something like a purr, and stretches his bare body against the sheets. “The vest kept squeaking. It is very difficult to ambush an opponent when you are wearing loud clothing.”
“What about the arm guards? And your gloves?” America folds down next to Russia on the bed, his complimentary terrycloth bathrobe still clinging to places where the water hasn’t quite dried; the insides of his elbows, the backs of his thighs.
“They seemed unnecessary.”
America drops a kiss behind Russia’s ear, nuzzles the tip of his nose to where smooth skin meets soft hair. “You should’ve kept ‘em. Maybe then I wouldn’t have trampled all over you.”
“I don’t remember losing, America.”
“That’s weird, ‘cause I totally remember winning.”
“If you insist.”
“You aren’t going to fight me for it?” America draws his tongue over one of the heavy bruises on the back of Russia’s neck.
“Not if--” A shiver, and a tiny moan. Russia tips his chin, presses his neck, his scars, flush against America’s mouth. “Not if you can find some way to--mmh--to distract me...”
America grins, and brushes a leftover fleck of blue paint from Russia’s arm. "You got it, baby."
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Title: "Paintball Is For Lovers"
Author: wizzard890
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Russia/America
Rating: PG-13
Summary: America decides to introduce Russia to the glorious world of paintball warfare. (Written for qualapec for the Russia/America comm's Spring Exchange!)
And I Care...Why? It's got paintball in! And cuteness, and America being a shitty driver, and Russia in aviators!
+++
America skims the truck into the fast lane with a nudge of his wrist on the wheel and a two-and-a-half second alert from his blinker. A furious chorus of horns spills open in their wake, but he doesn’t turn around, doesn’t curse, just settles his glasses a little higher on his nose and beams a smile into the passenger seat. “Welcome to the Seventeen. One of the worst interstates I have, I swear to God.”
“I am beginning to see very little difference between your worst highways and your best ones,” Russia replies, jerks his seatbelt a touch looser across his chest.
America can hear the little quote marks clipping in around best and worst. He rolls his eyes, and watches the tiny red pointer of the speedometer nudge closer and closer to ninety. “Yeah, well, either way they get us where we’re going. That’s worth a couple assholes in Hummers, huh?”
“I suppose.” Russia skims his hand beneath where America’s is resting on the gear shift, and lifts a perspiring glass bottle of Coke from the cup rest. He examines the last shivering half-inch of soda. “Did you still want this?”
“All yours.”
He empties the bottle in a single mouthful, makes a face.
America squints into the afternoon sunlight. “Thought soda gave you headaches.”
“It does. There is always too much sugar. But you used our last bottle of water to clean the windshield.”
“Man, I could barely see through it. I always forget how dusty it gets on the trip up here.”
“I was not having any sort of trouble when it was my turn to drive.”
“That’s cause you’re wearing sunglasses, and I can’t.”
Russia gives a conceding little shrug, and seems to lose interest in the conversation, rolling down his window suddenly and gazing out at miles of pine forest.
America takes a deep breath of mountain air, feels it ruffle his hair, brighter and sharper than the canned coolness of the air-conditioner. He steals a glance at Russia, at the glare glinting off his aviator glasses, and huffs on a laugh that gets lost in the wind.
“What is it?” Russia’s voice is very nearly whipped out the window
“Nothing,” America replies. They’re half-shouting, loud enough to be heard over the roar of highway and the rushing air. “You just look good in those glasses, is all.” And then there’s those jeans to think of, and the cotton t-shirt that keeps flattening against Russia’s torso with every fresh, heaving blast of wind...God, why doesn’t Russia skip on the suits all the time?
“I look like a fly.” Russia taps his thumb against the button next to the lock; the window begins its slow trek upwards. His hair is rucked into a ridiculous spray of ashy-white. America has to resist reaching over and smoothing his fingers through it.
“Yeah, that’s what you said when I bought them for you.”
“I also said thank you.”
America snorts and watches the white dashes in the center of the asphalt disappear beneath the hood of the car, over and over again.
Silence, for a while. Forest streaks past the window, broken up every now and then by the chalky red cliffs that loom over the sides of the highway. The sun spends its time slipping behind herds of billowing white clouds, and then peeking out again, throwing barely-there shadows across the tops of the trees.
Finally: “I just want you to know, Russia, as like, a warning--”
“Yes?”
“I am going to kick your ass.”
Russia drums his fingernails on the side of the empty Coke bottle. Ping, ping, ping. “I think not.”
“You’ve never even played before! I’m at a hell of an advantage.”
“I know.”
A green sign appears in the distance, anchored to the right of the interstate just before the treeline. White letters inform them that Flagstaff, Pop. 52, 894 is just a few miles further. America snaps on his blinker, and makes his way back across the highway, two lanes at a time.
+
“Wouldn’t it be easier to play without all this armor? They are only rubber bullets, after all.”
“Rubber bullets filled with paint.” America velcros his padded vest shut under his arms, checks his arm guards a final time. “You’ll see. They hurt like a bitch.”
Russia, clad in layers of padded black Kevlar, looks like...well, kinda like Darth Vader, if America really thinks about it. He examines his gun, hefts its weight in his hands. “And people just...run through the trees and pretend to be at war?”
“Something like that.”
“I am very practiced when it comes to being at war, America. Are you sure you want to do this with me?”
America laughs, and pats his pockets, makes sure his extra paint pellets are where they need to be. He surveys the empty forest spread out before them, miles and miles in every direction. “I think I can handle it.”
Both their guns clack as they finish loading.
+
A half an hour later, fading sunlight dapples through the tree trunks and catches up a glare along the visor of America’s helmet. He’s shot two logs, and a scrambling in the brush that turned out to be a rabbit--missed her, though.
But Russia is nowhere to be found.
America had expected that Russia would be pretty good at this. Just not...that good. He hasn’t even heard him: no scrape of Kevlar padding as he tries to slip by unnoticed, no crackling in the thick layer of pine needles underfoot. The guy’s a fucking ghost. Like Casper. If Casper was over six feet tall and kind of a dick.
His finger twitches on the trigger guard as he sidles up to another tree. The cloying scent of pine sap makes him blink. Bark rasps against the front of his vest, and it’s as loud as a scream in the encroaching twilight. He winces, and arches away from the trunk. If Russia finds him first, he’s never gonna live it down.
He’s been keeping an eye out for marks from Russia’s bullets, too, just in case he’d slipped up and shot at something that wasn’t America, but he comes up empty handed. Not a fleck of red paint anywhere in the damn forest.
Giving Russia red pellets had seemed a lot funnier back when he thought he’d actually get a chance to see them.
He listens to himself breathe, peers up at the faintness of the moon against the still-sunsplashed sky. The prickling tension between his shoulder blades begins to fade.
A shift, suddenly, in the air behind him.
“Oh, fuck no--”
The words are barely out of his mouth before a snap of pain explodes across the back of his neck, half across plastic, half stinging over his skin where the helmet doesn’t quite cover. Wet--dribbling down past his collar, sticky and cold, and man, paint can feel like blood if a guy’s not paying attention--
America wheels around, scrambles his gun up to his shoulder, and sprays a volley of bullets across Russia’s chest. Ribbons of blue spread and soak up into the front of the other nation’s shirt.
...Wait.
“Where the hell is your gear?” It’s muffled by America’s helmet, but he sees Russia’s eyes light up behind his own visor--the only thing he’s still wearing, Christ--and he dives behind a tree just in time to avoid another rain of red paint.
“Look,” he hollers, “if you ditched all that stuff by your--fuck!” A stray bullet catches his shoulder. He whips over onto one hip, and gets off a shot around the tree trunk. It slams into Russia’s thigh. “If you ditched all that stuff on your own, I’m not gonna take it easy on you!”
No response. He hears air hissing in and out of Russia’s helmet as he breathes.
America folds another row of bullets into the chamber of his gun. “Your call,” he mutters. And with that, he launches himself to his feet and out into the clearing, already shooting.
+
“You’re a wreck.”
Russia’s quiet groan disappears into the coarse hotel pillowcase.
America props himself up on his knees, and runs his hand down the curve of Russia’s spine, skims gently over the purpling bruises stained into that pale skin. “Seriously, you look like I tied you up and beat you with a baseball bat.”
“You have bruises too,” Russia mumbles. He arches into America’s touch like a cat, shivering. “I saw them in the shower.”
Russia’s hair is still damp when America leans down to kiss it. “Not as bad as yours, though. ‘Cause I wasn’t the one running around playing paintball in a t-shirt. Seriously, Russia, that was stupid as hell.”
“I kept my helmet on.”
“I said stupid, not suicidal.”
Russia makes a deep, rumbling sound, something like a purr, and stretches his bare body against the sheets. “The vest kept squeaking. It is very difficult to ambush an opponent when you are wearing loud clothing.”
“What about the arm guards? And your gloves?” America folds down next to Russia on the bed, his complimentary terrycloth bathrobe still clinging to places where the water hasn’t quite dried; the insides of his elbows, the backs of his thighs.
“They seemed unnecessary.”
America drops a kiss behind Russia’s ear, nuzzles the tip of his nose to where smooth skin meets soft hair. “You should’ve kept ‘em. Maybe then I wouldn’t have trampled all over you.”
“I don’t remember losing, America.”
“That’s weird, ‘cause I totally remember winning.”
“If you insist.”
“You aren’t going to fight me for it?” America draws his tongue over one of the heavy bruises on the back of Russia’s neck.
“Not if--” A shiver, and a tiny moan. Russia tips his chin, presses his neck, his scars, flush against America’s mouth. “Not if you can find some way to--mmh--to distract me...”
America grins, and brushes a leftover fleck of blue paint from Russia’s arm. "You got it, baby."
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