Sometimes

Sometimes America wishes he didn't have to leave right away. Sometimes he wants to just stay the night at Russia's house, holding him until the morning. Sometimes he wants to wake up before Russia and make his lover breakfast, in bed or otherwise. Sometimes he wants to just stay up the whole night, watching him sleep, the only time he really ever seems completely peaceful. Sometimes he wants to be the one to fend off the winter chill, instead of the heavy quilt. Sometimes he wants to surprise Russia with dinner or a movie instead of sex. Sometimes he wants to take things slow, to savor each touch and kiss and murmur.

And then America remembers what that commie bastard –sorry, ex-commie bastard –did to the world and to him, and he relishes in the pained cry Russia lets out as he enters him.