Imagine this is some distant future where the US 'retired' as a personified nation and someone else took his place. I honestly just wanted a reason to write sad smut.

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He shouldn't be in some bar in New York City, where the music is obscenely loud and the girls under-dressed, he should be at home, doing paperwork or relaxing, perhaps call his sisters. Yet, here is he, in New York, where he can't hear anything this boy with those large blue eyes and that slight Southern drawl he got when he was drunk, excited or angry and that pretty, round face with that stupid, large smile of his.

Russia knows that this boy is too young to be in a bar, but he says he just turned 21 and Russia just accepts it as fact. Everything prior to the last few years, the boy admits to not really remembering, like it had all been a blur. This is a common thing for ex-nations, but not so much for former micro-nations. This boy will grow old, he will fall in love with someone and marry them, he doesn't have a clue who Russia actually is, only knows him by the name of Ivan, who is just visiting this country out of curiosity. Alfred comments that he seems familiar, but he can't figure out who he is, and Russia only smiles. It's not lecherous or evil, it's just a blank smile, as if to say, 'Oh, how strange.' because Nations are familiar to humans, like they've met each other before, perhaps gone to school with each other. At some point, they can even start to feel like family.

They flirt—of course they flirt—and Russia tries to keep his hands to himself. He misses that skin, those slight curves, that stomach that would either be soft or firm, depending on the year and the celebration. And he's angry at Alfred, whom this boy calls himself, because America left him. It's obvious Alfred is interested in him, it's obvious by the way those large eyes flick up and down, that cocky smile grows and Russia is almost amused.

"My body hurts too much," Had been the damn excuse, the reason to give up Nation status, after having been born, blessed, cursed as a Nation. Everyone else managed hundreds of years and are still going, and how dare America just give up like that. "I'm sure this new person will be just as awesome as I am!" They survived invasions, famines, wars, genocide and yet, here America just gives up just like that, Russia finds it almost fucking insulting.

They hadn't even known who the new person was until Canada had decided to visit California on a whim. He had sensed her nearby, and she didn't even know, but fuck her. She doesn't matter because she's not him, even though she has the same straw blonde hair and the same damn blue eyes, with that awful addiction to unhealthy food. She's just as loud, but it's not as endearing and she's not as fun to antagonize.

Russia can't hear America—no, Alfred—over the music and his own fucking thoughts, that he places once hand on his face and it just remains there for a moment, Alfred going quiet, with confusion written all over his face. He leans in, closes the space, and gently pecks his lips. He isn't sure why, because this human isn't America, no, America is dead. America disappeared, because he was a goddamn coward he couldn't handle a failing government and Russia is pissed. He's pissed because this human wears his face, has his eyes and his voice and his body and personality-

He kisses Alfred again, despite the barrage of questions, this time harder, hands quickly moving behind his head and pressing in. Alfred eventually does kiss back, after momentary shock and rests his hands against Russia's thighs.

Alfred tries to be sneaky and slide his hands up, but it doesn't really go unnoticed and it isn't as 'sexy' as he thinks it is, but Russia is able to forgive it. They have to break away after a moment, Alfred is flushed and panting, and it amuses Russia so much.

"Uh," Alfred swallows, Adams apple bobbing as he does so. "Back to my place?"

Russia nods, and Alfred almost falls out of his seat trying to get up. Russia nearly calm as he follows, his hand tightly grasped in Alfred's. His car isn't too shabby, obviously used, and it's messy. America always kept his meticulously clean, and Russia never understood why America would call an inanimate object his 'baby' or a 'she', but after awhile, he'd stopped verbalizing it when he never got an actual response outside of, "'Cause she's my baby!" It was so redundant.

The drive isn't too long, and it's a rundown apartment, vastly different than the high-rise he'd used to live in. They half fumble out, and into the building after Alfred had turned off the ignition and locked the doors. The hallways almost echo with their footsteps, and the doors are worn down and chipping away and Alfred half apologizes for the state. "College student, y'know, gotta be smart."

Russia slams America into the wall, pressing his body close, a form of renewed anger because his America and this Alfred are too different and too similar and he hates it and hate this human before him. Among the Nations, outside of their citizens, there is this silent sense of superiority because humans die too easily, humans get sick quickly and they can get hurt and they're mortal.

Alfred's eyes are wide, and he winces when his back strikes against the wall. Russia leans in, and nips at his neck and lips, pulling at his shirt and biting at his collar bone. After that, he kisses Alfred hard on the lips, tongue entering Alfred's mouth and he tastes the cheap beer, tongues rub against each other and he can feel Alfred's erection press up against him. Russia resumes biting his neck and collar bone, making sure to leave teeth indentations and marks that will last him for weeks.

He finally pulls away, and allows a red, panting and stumbling Alfred to finish leading him to his apartment, third floor, middle of the hallway. There's a brief apology about the mess, which honestly, is much like his America except there's books, trash, clothes and a couple of old maps strewn on the floor. On the coffee table in the living room are a bunch of text books, two of them open and a coffee-stained notebook.

It's somehow comforting and warm, and Russia detests it.

The clothes come off quickly, Alfred lacks the scars America did. He doesn't have that scar on his shoulder blade from his war of Independence, or the one across his chest from when Pearl Harbor was bombed, there aren't any on his stomach or any more on his back. They're all mostly gone, except one on his right shoulder blade and Alfred doesn't know what it's from. If Russia remembers correctly, that scar on America was from the Civil War. When Alred reaches to remove Russia's scarf and shirt, Russia smacks his hands away, a little too harshly because the instant draw back and that look almost makes Russia feel bad.

"They stay on," he says, a little too sharply. Alfred nods in understanding, and Russia draws him close again, softly kissing his lips and neck, and down his chest. Alfred moans softly in response, fingers running along his hipbones. "You're beautiful." Except, his America is much more beautiful.

"You're not so bad yourself," comes the awkward response and Russia chuckles a little bit. Typical.

They stumble into Alfred's bedroom, where Russia eyes the American flag haphazardly tacked onto the wall, and he shoves Alfred onto the messy bed. Russia doesn't waste his time with crawling onto the bed afterwards, pushing Alfred's legs apart and ducking his head down.

Russia grasps at the base, and licks at the leaking tip and along the length. He wraps his lips around the the head and gives a gentle suck, earning a loud moan and feeling Alfred buck his hips. Russia sucks a little harder and moves down further, along the bases and releases his hand from grasping his penis to playing with his balls. As he sucks and bobs his head, pushing his erection as far down his throat as it'll go to running his tongue along the underside, he squeezes and plays with his balls using both hands.

Alfred grips the dark blue bedding, thrusting his hips upward and unable to conceal his moans. Hands move up and touch his shoulders, gripping hard and leaving nail indentations. Eventually, Russia pulls off, a string of pre-cum and saliva following. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smirking down at the bleary eyed younger man.

"Lube?"

Alfred points, unable to form coherent words. Russia gets up and searches through the drawer he'd pointed to, and finds an almost empty bottle of lube. He hopes it won't be a problem, and almost has no qualms in going in dry or causing some sort of physical harm to this human. Russia kneels back onto the bed, opening up the lid and squirts some into his hand.

He lathers himself up, and squirts a little bit more onto his fingers and presses against Alfred's entrance. There's resistance, but he finally manages to get in one finger and pokes around before half way forcing in the other, earning a whimper of pain. Russia teases his prostate, probing, pressing and rubbing, as Alfred pushes against his fingers now, the pain having subsided.

Russia removes his fingers after a few moments, deciding that he was prepared enough and strokes his cock, smiling down at Alfred.

"Are you ready?"

There's a moment, and Russia can almost sense the hesitancy. "Uh, s-sure."

"Are you sure?" Comes the murmur. "We can stop." He doesn't want to ask if Alfred is actually a virgin.

"Yes." Comes the firm response. "I'm ready. I'll tell you to stop if I want you to stop."

Russia settles himself in between Alfred's legs, raising both of them to his hips and slowly guides himself into his entrance. He pauses for a moment, watching a brief flash of pain cross Alfred's face, now feeling bad for wanting to inflict harm on him.

"Relax," comes the whisper. "Deep breath."

"Y-yeah," Alfred grunts out and Russia slowly pushes in more, watching Alfred's chest rise and in hearing that sharp intake of breath. Arms wrap around his shoulders, and fingers dig into his back. Russia peppers kisses along his face and eyelids, and he finally settles in. They remain still for a moment, Alfred adjusting to the sudden intrusion and soon enough, he starts to squirm and move his hips a little.

Russia pulls out to just the tip, and pushes back in, careful to remain as gentle and slow as he could. As Alfred relaxes, Russia picks up the pace and starts to thrust in and out, faster and balls slapping against his skin. The moans from Alfred are loud and the sharp pain in his back from Alfred scratching and digging his nails in only fuel him more. Their hips meet at almost the same pace, Alfred's movements only more awkward and inexperienced. Russia lets out low groans at how tight Alfred is, and how hot this is.

It's only in this moment, Russia remembers that this isn't his America, that this is just a human who looks and acts just like him and he feels a tightness in his chest and throat. His lungs constrict, so he bends down, pushing their bodies as close as he possibly can and buries his face in the crook of Alfred's neck. He hides his tears, hardening and quickening his pace.

Alfred's moans are loud in his ear, and Russia reaches between their bodies, grasping at Alfred's cock and strokes it in time with his thrusts. Soon, Alfred is cumming on both their chests—and staining Russia's shirt. Alfred's grasp loosens and Russia cums almost soon afterwards.

Collapsing on top of Alfred, Russia rolls off of him and lays on his side, running his fingers through sweat damp hair. Alfred half cuddles into him, slowly falling asleep and neither saying a word and Russia pretending he hadn't been crying. When Alfred falls asleep, Russia sits up and stares at down at the boy.

"I hate you," he says, voice sounding loud in the otherwise silent room. Alfred remains undisturbed. Russia stills for a moment, thinking. Humans are only ever quick fucks for Nations, they're not worth being in a relationship because their lives are so short. Some start relationships, but they never last. Things get in the way, humans fall in love with other humans or desire children or something that a Nation just cannot provide.

So, Russia crawls out of bed, gathers his clothes, dresses and leaves. Out in the hall, his throat constricts again and he hates it. Just as he hates that boy in that apartment, and he sits down on the floor and lets the tears fall, burying his face in his hands.

It isn't until the sobs finish wracking his body, he manages to collect himself and stumble out. When he returns home, a week later, he doesn't tell his sisters or anyone where he's been, he just simply pretends it never happened.