A/N: This was something of an experiment, to see if I could write this pairing. Now I'm hooked. o.o

Thanks to Pripyat for betaing~

Warnings: lots of swearing, heated kissing

America pressed his hands up against the windowpane, feeling the cold even through the thickness of his gloves. There was snow on the ground, although it wasn't winter. The night was deep, cold, anything but clear. What few stars that could be seen were shivering away. He gave a long, weary exhale. Not a sigh, a soreness.

His breath made mists of ash in the air. Or so it seemed, what with the dryness and the acrid tang of waiting lingering in his throat.

The Cold War was almost over. He knew it. Russia knew it. The Soviet states were breaking up, rebelling and withdrawing from the union. He could almost taste the unrest. It lingered everywhere, in the snow, beneath the eaves, silhouetted against the desiccated clouds. A few more days, and governments would dissolve. Communism would be shaken from its foundations.

He was here to watch. He wanted to see socialism collapse in shambles, witness the suppression flare into freedom. He wanted to teach the former Soviet states democracy. To lace their new societies with capitalism and consumerism. He needed to witness the people's ecstasy when they gained independence, reclaimed their inherent rights.

Actually, that was a bit too altruistic.

In reality, he was here to gloat. He wanted to be there when Russia's hierarchy imploded, when his dreams came crashing down in chaos. He anticipated victory, would revel in Russia's defeat. The Cold War would be won, and he would be there to flaunt it in Russia's face. "Asshole," he'd tell him, smirking at the sight of Russia, the most formidable world power, Russia, his archenemy, cringing, weakened, utterly defenseless. "You see?" He'd sneer, "I told you communism was wrong. I knew that it would never work. Now look how far you've fucking fallen."

America would have liked to see Russia floored, crushed, on the brink of evaporation. But he had come to know him all too well in these decades of bitter, silent adversity.

He wouldn't put it past Russia to laugh at his own demise. The nation was fierce, deranged— as devastating and unpredictable as the Siberian gales, as trusting your weight to thinning ice. This was another reason that America was here. He wasn't sure what Russia might decide to do. Russia could sense the socialist system fraying, and may attempt to retaliate. In desperation, it was possible that he would consider attacking America. Because they were rivals, because America had been the one to predict the Soviet Union's collapse, because of hatred and insanity and too many years tainted with implied threats of absolution.

In madness, it was altogether far too likely. Their peace was spindly, insufficient as promises, as summer snowfall, and just as short-lived and easily forgotten. Russia still had nuclear weapons. Russia still abhorred America.

America gritted his teeth, grimacing. Russia deserved to be razed from the earth.

If Russia decide to try something, America wanted to be prepared. He was here to witness the dissolution of the USSR, yes, to mock Russia, most certainly, but also to protect himself. He'd hardly slept in the past few days, because he was almost constantly monitoring Russia's movements. Missiles took time to fly, and he could intercept them. But only if he knew that they were coming.

Which was why he was now standing with his palms soaking up the coolness of the coolness of the window, watching Russia sleep. No, making sure that he was asleep.

The past few weeks had not been easy on his rival. He had collapsed on rumpled covers, fully clothed. His arms and legs were skewed in a way that faintly suggested scattering. Russia's skin was pale, waning, the shade of stained snow. The fingers of one hand curled in the worn fabric of his scarf, as if seeking refuge among the constancy.

America liked Russia best when he slept. No, not "liked"— it was too lenient a term. "Almost could tolerate" was closer to reality. While he was sleeping, Russia's features became softer, gentler, somehow. He was freed— his expression contained no trace of that sadistic smile or innocent façade. The corruption dwindled into dusk, and for a few eludes hours he seemed blissfully suspended. Removed from the harshness of the winter, no longer haunted by hysteria. Almost pure— an illusion of what Russia might have been if not for centuries of bloodshed, of lunacy, of barren sweeps of snow.

He gazed upon the unfamiliar sharpness of Russia's cheeks. His face had been full and smooth, until a few weeks ago. America let his hands drag down the window. He was wasted, exhausted, in dire need of sleep. Thinking ached like throbbing. On nights like these, he almost found himself wanting to believe that Russia wasn't his enemy.

Idiotic notions. His senses were swimming in sand. It was time to leave— Russia wasn't about to try anything tonight. And in the morning, it was back to waiting.

--

"Fuck you." It was a hiss, almost a snarl. Thick and roiling with fury, detest, accompanied by the sharp pressure of a gun ramming into the base of Russia's head. America could feel the smarting chill which radiated from the taller nation even through the few inches and layers of clothing which separated them. Russia's insane grin never faltered. Unintimidated by the curses, the weapon, the evident simplicity of harming him in his current weakened state. America hated getting this close. It felt like he was deluged in liquid ice.

"America." Russia savored the word as something caustic, repulsive, which he had earned the pleasure of crushing. "How does it feel, to know that you're about to be seared off the face of the planet?" His eyes shivered with euphoric hysteria. Smile intensifying, widening, if that was even possible. America smirked, eyes narrowing in triumph. He knew Russia was waiting for him to crumple into the crispness of the snow. Stain the pristine white a desecrated, hideous red.

"It's not happening." America had to fight to contain a tremor, of spiteful, victorious laughter. "Your missiles are boiling at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean." The missile interception facilities which he had installed in Kauai were not yet fully operational, but their limited functionality had been more than enough to finish the job. "Thought you could take out my whole West Coast, did you?" America's voice was low, brewing with satisfaction and fierce hatred.

Russia was unfazed. "Good, then," he smiled, eyes flickering with crazed mirth. Leveling the water spigot as if determining the angle which would cause the most damage.

"Nuh-uh," America muttered through gritted teeth, reestablishing his grip on the gun. Digging the barrel forcefully into Russia's hair, an open threat. "You wouldn't dare." His voice was a growl.

"Or would I?" Russia's breath reeked of vodka, heady, putrid. "At this very moment, the states are signing protocol which will dissolve my government. The Baltics have declared their independence. It is a matter of days before the others will join them. Don't you see, America," his voice was taunting, sinister, "the world is crumbling in. There is nothing," —that maddening grin— "that you can do to hurt me now."

"Try me," America whispered, gaze as abrasive as splintered steel. Azure cloying into ragged darkness. Go to hell, he thought, and pulled the trigger.

A slight, audible click. Russia's dizzying smirk.

Fuck, fuck, fuck! Why hadn't he thought to check if the gun was loaded. Russia was probably pissed—a water spigot was due to be connecting with his head right about now.

Well, if all else fails, screw it and get physical. He promptly punched Russia in the gut. Retrieving some twisted sense of satisfaction as the taller nation emitted a soft, strangled gasp, reeling backwards. And there came that metal pipe, colliding with his jaw—

Incandescent agony. He tasted fire, couldn't bring himself to breathe.

Russia relished the sickening crunch of dense metal striking bone. Watched America wince, features contort, and crumple to the snow.

Silence. A frosty breeze filtering through near-sunless Siberian sky. Russia stood, waiting. Just another icy fixture on the frozen landscape. It was a waste of time to harm an unconscious enemy.

Russia swayed. The unrest was escalating. Each socialist leader forced to step down, every state which hovered on the verge of withdrawing from the union, sent a smarting pang threading through his limbs. It ached as if his skin was rubbing raw, constant, belligerent, brutal. His lips and hands were cracked dry, disintegrating. The cold had never been this harsh. It traced numb stagnance through his nerves, fraying, immobilizing.

It was an effort to remain standing. He wanted to crack, to dip to his knees and phase into spasms of painful, hysterical laughter. He refused to give in, to let himself fall. There was some part of him that shuddered, though— if the small victories stabbed this deep, how would he handle complete dissolution?

He was tiring of America. He longed to begin fighting again. The threats, blows, and lacerating glares came as much-needed distraction. It prevented Russia from focusing on the devastating ache.

He kneeled beside America, the motion dizzying, arriving in phases. America's glasses were crooked, one of the lenses fractured in the bottom corner. A few slick strands of coppery-golden hair were matted to the side of his face, clumpy and crusting with clotted blood.

Russia uncapped the bottle of vodka which he had stowed in his jacket, carefully tipping the liquid onto America's face. There was a few seconds' delay before America gave a sharp wince, the alcohol writhing its way into his wound. Russia leaned close, watching. He wanted to be there, smirking, when America opened those repulsive blue eyes. Repulsive because they were the purest shade of sky— a substance which Russia found cryptic, unfathomable. Antagonizing. In Siberia, the sky was tainted a shriveling gray.

The tip of America's tongue came out, smoothing slowly across his lips. Tasting, placing the vodka. He recognized Russia's soft breaths on his face, thin, frozen, bitter and biting as frost. His eyes sailed open into a hostile glare, and he punched. His fist collided with Russia's chin. America broke into a self-satisfied smirk as Russia sat up and spat out blood. His amethyst gaze was cool, conniving.

Russia's arm flashed out swifter than sound. Slicing through the snow until his fingers closed around the discarded water spigot, flinging it upwards into an arc which connected with America's chest. So began a series of thrusts, battering, and blows. The movements were ragged, arbitrary, inflamed with ferocity. Years of tension scrabbling to a peak. America was taking the brunt of the abuse— Russia was above him, and the metal rod had a greater reach.

America managed to catch the water pipe the next time it descended. He grappled with it, struggling to wrench it from Russia's grasp and up into the taller nation's chest. Russia bore down, smile vacant, gaze smitten with hysteric euphoria. So he thought this was funny? America seethed, arms shaking slightly with the effort of holding Russia off. His hands were slippery with sweat, although the pipe was faintly cold— A flare of determination. This was ridiculous. He would not be defeated. With gargantuan effort, he heaved upward, giving the spigot a deft twist to that Russia was hurled to the side.

America caught too-thin wrists and flipped so that Russia was the one lying in the snow. Panting with rage, furious at Russia for continuing to laugh, furious because of how easily he had almost been overwhelmed. He shifted so that he was straddling Russia, crushing the country beneath his weight. Why wouldn't he stop fucking smiling? America suppressed the urge to punch his teeth in. Instead, he leaned forward, fingers curling into Russia's shoulders like claws. "No one," he hissed, voice tense and scathing as venom, "dominates me. No one." He ground Russia roughly into the snow, demonstrating his point.

"You win, America." His voice was soft, repentant. But those wretched vile violet eyes continued to mock him. "This time." The smile flowed across his face like permafrost, bleak, malevolent, eternally, painfully chilled.

America's glare was smoking with palpable detest. "I hate you."

"Rest assured," Russia murmured. "The feeling is mutual. Now, if you wouldn't mind getting off of-" The words spluttered out with his breath. Taunting, infuriating grin melting into silence. Russia tensed beneath him, gaze wide, empty, and startled. Almost afraid. America frowned. The old oh-no-there's-something-behind-you trick, intended to catch an enemy off guard. Well, he was making damn sure not to fall for it.

Russia shuddered, then went still. "Остановитесь," he mouthed, phrase catching among rusting vocal chords, tapering into a rasp. Cool threads of uneasiness traced their way beneath America's skin. He couldn't understand the Russian, but had a feeling that something, vaguely, was not right. Russia's eyes were leaking darkness. "Америка." In Russian his name was softer, rustling. It sounded like sand. "Отойти. бросить меня." America's tension heightened, lapping up his sides. Russia's voice was brittle, desperate, as he broke into English. "Get the fuck away from me! Now!"

America recoiled as if doused in coals. Apprehension escalating into full-blown panic. What? What? What the hell was happening" Russia blinked as if he couldn't quite remember how. Gaze hazy, barren, blank, amethyst phasing into ash. "Russia?" America's hands finding his shoulders and shaking, jarring. "Russia?" Urgent, baffled. Russia winced, then flashed him a glance which felt like a whisper. Brief, quiet, fleeting, yet insurmountably destructive. He didn't know—something was crumbling, someone important had been killed, another few states had withdrawn—but Russia was unsure exactly what, and it hurt, he was scared, he didn't know.

If it was anyone but Russia, it could have almost counted as a plea. America felt tattered, he didn't know whether to stay of leave. He had been commanded to go, but that faltering stare riveted him to remain. Torn, hesitant. Fractured, reeling feelings. It was Russia, it was his rival, they had just been punching each other's faces. This could be some ploy, some creepy Russian strategy for reducing their enemies' willpower. (If this was the case, he was grudgingly was forced to admit that it was far more effective than his American tactics.) This was what he had wanted, right? To watch and laugh as Russia cracked? He didn't feel proud or satisfied— it was more like dizziness, like frantic futility. He didn't know what to think, how to feel, what to say—

Or fathom how to help. Dam those fucking hero instincts. His hands skimmed across the sallow skin of his adversary's face, exhales soft pants of Russia, Russia. Stricken by the bitter chill, positive that flesh was supposed to be warm, not this frosty tone of frigid. Russia had never appeared vulnerable before— and it shivered shakily to his soul, shattered him.

Russia was limp, eyes closed, features iced over in a deceptive calm. He was somewhere else, watching socialism shred, his country filter through the cracks. Departed.

America was overcome with the inexplicable urge to make Russia feel warmth, to impart some scattered relic of sunlight. He didn't think— he just did. Slowly lowered himself so that he was lying completely on top of the other nation, feeling the shock as the cold welled up his limbs like water, harsh and bitingly numb. He kneaded his fingers into Russia's scarf, bracing himself against the sensation of chilly, shallow breaths fluttering across his face.

He remained motionless, waiting for the thaw. Time ebbed and parted around them, and he could not determine whether it had been hours of minutes when Russia at last began to stir.

Russia was faintly aware of warmth, of being held— no, not held, crushed. There was a constant, thrumming soreness, and his skin was unfamiliar, tight, clinging to his limbs. As if parts of him had been gnawed away, disintegrating from glaciers into gaping chasms. Thoughts were hard to grasp, as thin and acerbic as acid rain. He couldn't' seem to place who was waiting with him.

No one should have stayed. Russia was alone, had always been alone. The others were afraid to talk to him, wary of approaching. They avoided touching him as if his skin would leave incarcerating burns. He remained isolated in the bleakness of the Siberian snowbanks, empty, stranded. He couldn't understand who was with him now, or why. No one cared about Russia.

They smelled like nutmeg, cactus, aromatic sunlight. Burgers, sweat, and nearly clotted blood. He opened his eyes to hovering sky— except the sky had never been quite so wide, so close, or such a queasy, stereotypical blue. It was America. Russia allowed his lips to glide upward into that comfortable, supercilious smile. But his eyes remained soft. He would never voice it aloud, but he would not forget that America stayed.

Instead, he murmured, although it came out more as a grating whisper, "I've lost my sisters. Ukraine and Belarus declared their independence."

Russia's words barely registered. America didn't like this. His skin was simmering as if doused in soda, sparks— fizzing, crackling, trembling. Lying on top of Russia, forearms braced against the nation's chest so that America could raise his head, was suddenly too close. Too unnerving, almost— intimate. He'd leapt impulsively through a gate which he'd never meant to open. He didn't want to know Russia, didn't want to understand him. They were rivals, and that was how he wanted it to remain. The brutality was safe, comfortable.

But this— it felt like he was teetering on something transparent, half-formed, destined to shatter. He was stranded fathoms deep, violently uneasy, unsure whether he wanted to wheel and flee or continue fumbling onward.

And shit— he was ensnared, dwelling in the dead zone. Pale amethyst eyes draining into his, and he was truck by just how empty it was in Russia— and perhaps, he thought, he'd ventured a little too far, because he wasn't quite sure if he was capable of wrenching himself away—

It was an abyss. An apocalypse. A descent into the furthest reaches of space, where blood blistered to a boiling halt with the cold that was kindled like flames.

"Would you mind getting off of me?" Russia struggled slightly, but his voice came as if through thawing ice, too diffracted and distorted for America to comprehend the request. He was really close now, treading in foreign frozen waters. Russia watched him warily, mildly puzzled and wanting to move, but America was pinning him down.

There was blood on Russia's face from where America had punched him. It trickled downward from the corner of his lips in sticky, glistening streaks, spilling outward into the snow. America found it strangely irksome, disconcerting. Red etched a sickening rust against cheeks which were pressed for pale. It made him instinctively uneasy.

He wanted to dispel the stain. Wanted it gone— clean snow, winter untainted by the aftershocks of battle. Cleaned, purged. He dipped his head and watched it disappear. Faintly tasted tarnished copper.

"Америка?" Russia asked from somewhere distant, shrinking away at the sensation of something warm and wet inching around his lips—

And what the fuck was he doing?! Reality crashed in an avalanche of curses, breaking and battering about his skull like a barrage of hammered nails. He was lying on top of Russia. Leaning close. Licking him. He fumbled backwards, tripping hastily to his feet, chilled to the bone. He was shocked, appalled, verging on horrified. He wavered. Spat out some mutilated heap of apologies, explanations, swearing, excuses, choking on the syllables.

He turned and sprinted. America clenched his hands into desperate fists. Slogging through the snow, shaking, shaking. What the fuck had come over him? He had to remind himself to breathe. He attempted to think, to clear his mind, to try and reason it out, but the image of desolate violet eyes seemed sutured to the insides of his eyelids.

Haunting him every time he blinked.

--

America scowled, curling his hands into is jacket pockets. The air was crisp and biting, snow gleaming bright enough to scorch his eyes in one of the few scant moments of sunlight. Fucking Siberia. He loathed the landscape, could barely tolerate the cold, and then of course there was Russia. He winced, recalling yesterday. He didn't want to think about Russia. Tomorrow he was leaving, flying back home. The Soviet Union wouldn't last another day. The likelihood that Russia would attempt anything else against him was dwindling as the disorder peaked, but he still wanted to play it safe.

Cut off a wolf's head, and it could still bite. He figured it was much the same with Russia.

He couldn't wait to get the hell out of here. He felt like he was going mental— could almost understand Russia's madness. Too much time spent in isolation, too many degrees of stark, uniform white. Pale white and pure white and ghost white, crumbling white and chalky white and that sullied white which was just beginning to go grey… And then the sky was white, too, he thought, glancing up. Smothering whi—

His feet came in contact with something smooth, and his legs unexpectedly skidded out from under him. "Shit!" he exclaimed softly, receiving a mouthful of snow. So sharply cold it burned. He spat it out with vehemence and pushed himself up. Fucking Siberia. He'd slipped on a patch of ice or a malicious rock or something else slick and stupid—

Like a bottle of vodka. He was kneeling among them, three bottles of Russian vodka. Compulsively, he seized one and tipped it upside down. It procured a few colorless drops. Irritation tapered into unease. Three empty bottles of vodka. What could…? He glanced around him, noting the inhospitable quality of the silence. Apprehensive, penetrating. He caught sight of clear glass protruding from the snow a few hundred feet away. These weren't the only bottles of vodka.

He abruptly stood and made his way over. His footsteps seemed unnaturally loud, as if his heartbeat had been displaced and was throbbing in his shoes. These bottles were not merely discarded— they were planted in the snow, ten or twelve of them, protruding at jagged angles. This didn't seem arbitrary. And where there was vodka, there was Russia. He scanned the array of bottles, dropping to his knees. They reminded him of something… something eerily familiar, an overwhelming sense of finality…

He tasted tar. Dull panic seizing through his veins. It was like— a cemetery. The bottles were decrepit headstones… moldering crypts… this was contrived, he was certain.

A shellshocked pause— he comprehended.

"Russia!" It was a blistering shriek, grating through the stillness as he fell upon his hands and began to shred the snow. Frenzied, scraping, searing handfuls, etching shallow rents into the polished smoothness. His fingers withered from the cold and he suppressed the shivering, realizing that this might not be soon enough or quick enough or even the right spot… searching frantic-futile though crumbling powder, sifting, stirring, breath catching hot and heavy in his throat. Reaching, clawing like something feral and ferocious.

His hands snagged in fraying scarf and the fabric felt thin as woven frost, as air. Gentler now, he scraped the snow off Russia's face, faltering, almost trembling. Cleaved in two by hazy eyes and the shadow of that violent smile.

The snow had been scooped away. Russia blinked and found America, panting, disheveled, fiercely almost fearful America. Good, I made you scared? He wanted to smirk, but his lips were having difficulty being convinced to function. The sow was soft, blissfully numb. It quelled the sear of crashing. He felt too exposed. "Америка. Я хорошо. Я не могу чувствовать холод." he breathed. America. I'm fine. I cannot feel the cold. Lips slipping like lead. America was still staring at him, shaken.

His tongue didn't want to think in English. The syllables were dissonant, didn't quite connect. "It's all right. The cold cannot reach me." Russia paused to rasp for breath, then continued. "Cover me back up." A soft command. "I'm colder than the snow." America flinched at the words which flickered and fell like hushed, lacerating truth.

He was crushed. Sank with the swell of muted, numbing pain— he hadn't wanted to see this. Stop smiling, he wanted to tell Russia, stop smiling, if it hurts stop smiling, and America didn't know what to do and he hated feeling insecure and it was pissing him off that Russia could bury himself in snow and never shed that wretched smile— "Stop fucking smiling!" He screamed, and tried to punch the smirk from his rival's lips. He came to regret it almost immediately, because Russia punched back and the fist which struck him was as limp and wan as wax—

"You're coming with me." He dragged Russia up into a kneel by the scarf, the hands, the elbows. The other nation resisted, straining back with listless limbs.

"Нет, America. Leave me here." The words were soft but fell like stones. Urgent, possessing a quiet desperation— this was humiliating enough without America witnessing him fall.

"No fucking way." Gritting his teeth, heaving on Russia's arms. "Move it. Stand." He was inclined to kick Russia, but had the feeling that it wouldn't exactly improve the situation.

Russia stared up at him with eyes that were hazy with vodka and ache. Corrupted. Icy hands slipped into his, fingernails curling, gripping, scouring. Almost strong enough to pierce the flesh. "Sometimes," Russia murmured, and America watched the amethyst corrode, "all I see is red. On the ground. In my hands. On my clothes." Shut up, America thought painfully, distantly, shut up. I don't want to hear this. Russia's fingers were scraping jagged grooves, searing almost through his palms. "The snow is leaking blood. It smothers me. Я утопить."

America tried to lurch away, but Russia's hands slunk up his wrists, twisting and sinking and holding. Fingertips buried themselves in the exposed skin above his veins. Red welled and bloomed, steaming as it met frozen fingers. Terrified, America snapped. "Shut the fuck up!" Stop scaring me. He lunged and tugged and wrenched and scrabbled until finally Russia was standing.

Sort of. More like clinging to America to keep himself upright. Russia's hands were slipping off his jacket, leaving slickened smears of blood. America shoved him away—blood would stain—and swiftly caught Russia's forearms to steady him. He gave a soft hiss of surprise at the thinness— emaciated limbs sinking in the sleeves, flesh not filling half the fabric.

Russia allowed himself to be lead as easily as a stiff rag. America shuddered, biting back dull horror. Sickened by the Soviet mess— but it was better being here than being home, because he wouldn't have had the chance to stop those missiles. Their progress was tedious and faltering. Aside from being seriously weakened, Russia seemed drunk. America tried to forget the frozen hands shocking holes into his own— he didn't want to glance behind him and watch the taller nation smiling while he stumbled though the snow.

They approached the house, America sweating and slightly out of breath— Russia had taken possession of his arm and was leaning heavily on him. The door was locked, so he kicked it and battered the doorknob with his free hand. At last it gave in, offering up a wrenching keel of defeat as it shivered open. America fumbled though the doorway, tugging Russia roughly along towards the nation's bedroom.

His sole intention was to get him there and then get the hell away— he'd had enough Russia, enough Soviet Union, to last him more than a lifetime. They reached the bed, and he half-carried, half-heaved, half-hurled Russia up on top of it. He breathed a shaky sigh of relief. Good. Done. He was though with this madness. Now he could leave. Screw his flight tomorrow. He was going to the airport tonight.

Except he was having some difficulty extracting Russia's hands from his fingers. "Let go," he mumbled through clenched teeth, attempting to pry the icy digits away. Russia refused to release his hold. The nation was face-down, mouth muffled by his scarf. So America couldn't really understand when he muttered something, thickly—"Пребывание со мной." and it sounded like Russian anyway and he just wanted to get out of here, damn it!

"I don't care. Just fucking let go of me." But Russia turned to look at him with eyes which were melting. Barren, bleak. Losing, almost lost. And achingly alone.

"No. You're staying with me." Shit. America let his grip go lax. Russia was staring at him tersely, waiting, although he'd made it sound as if it wasn't a request. Stringy, matted hair which fell like threads of frost, ebbing eyes, waning ashen skin… America was witnessing erosion. His heart was snapping. Crumpled. Shearing into splinters. It felt like he was the one disintegrating.

He wanted to tear out of there and scream at the snow. Throw punches like curses. Fill the sky with bullet holes, lash out at the futility of living. Because he wasn't supposed to feel this for an enemy. For anyone. It's only heroism, he tried to convince himself, but the arguments dipped and frayed to dust.

He struggled. He wasn't supposed to want to stay.

His efforts were in vain. "Alright," he whispered, and felt the word snag him, snap him, condemn him like a death sentence.

And in the next instant, he realized just how very idiotic he had been. Because Russia's smirk broke like a tidal wave as he lunged out to yank the stupefied America down on top of him. With shocking strength he flipped and flung the younger nation so that he was slammed against the bed, cornered between Russia and the wall. America could only gape. He'd had no time to think, never mind contemplate reaction.

Fuck. He was a moron. Complete, absolute, total, naïve, fucking moron. He'd entirely underestimated Russia. He wanted to laugh at the ridicule of his situation. Throw his hands up and pray for some divine help at reading the atmosphere. And if all else failed, try to knock some sense into himself by banging his head against a wall. Really. Fucking. Hard. Had he seriously believed that Russia could be that torn apart over the downfall of his republics?

Now Russia was looming over him, fiercely, maliciously hysterical, tattered bangs spilling into eyes which were practically glowing, and America wondered just how much of what he'd done Russia considered wrong, because he was sure as hell about to pay for it. Russia's hands had trapped his wrists, and the triumphant nation was almost kneeling on America's chest. Oh, how he despised being defenseless. At Russia's disposal: ten thousand times worse.

It was too late for missiles now. Too late for much of anything, really. America cringed, letting his eyes crinkle shut. Shrinking back against the wall, because Russia looked as devious as if he was contemplating the most satisfactory way of harming him. He could punch America's face into a bloody wreck. Or procure a gun and blast his brains out. Possibly force him to eat a speck of polonium smaller than a grain of sand and die a torturous, agonizing month-long death—

…He… couldn't quite… his hands fisted in the covers, shocked, still maddeningly restrained. Tendrils of heat threaded their way beneath his skin, his back arching involuntarily upward…

America blinked.

…Or kiss him senseless. That was always an option.

Slender tongue slipping between his lips, scavenging, claiming, controlling. The cold was dizzying, caused his senses to stagger. America felt tainted. Corrupted. Impure, lured into dormance by the thin layer of ice which had been slicked into his mouth like a suffocating shroud. When he had regained enough presence of mind to retaliate, he bit down sharply on the tongue which was impressing itself on his own. Not hard enough to draw blood, just a cordial warning. Remember: no one dominates me.

Russia seemed to get the message, because he released America's hands, leaving them free to snake up around his back and drag down so that they were crushed roughly together. America drove his tongue into Russia's mouth, licking and lapping and spurring the assault, determined not to be lulled into complacency again. Russia gave a soft, almost purr of pleasure— America's advances were wet and warm. Radiant, a sinful draught of sunlight snatched from beyond the parching chill. America took this with fierce satisfaction. It meant that he was winning.

But this wasn't good enough. Russia was still infuriatingly above him. He deserved to be the one on top. America braced his palms and surged upward, ramming Russia into the wall hard enough to bruise. The kiss was broken for an instant, in which America swallowed rapid gulps of air before he tilted his head and crashed their lips together again. The movements were ragged, lustful, invasive. Russia's hands dug into his back, jerking America closer, closer, and he was only too happy to comply.

Russia caught America's lip in his teeth, ran his tongue across, relishing the softness, the perfect swell. Then he bit. Hard. Trying to mar it, because America didn't deserve to be so pretty when Russia was spilling apart at the seams, when his own lips were blistered and abrasive and splitting from the dissolution. America impressed him— he didn't flinch away, instead pressing close in pleasure and allowing Russia to momentarily take control. He nipped and bit and tore at America's lips, the insides of his cheeks, corners of his mouth, his tongue, rushing and licking and possessing. Staking claims, fully marking everything as his.

America shuddered and writhed his hands into Russia's coat, almost gasping at the painful sweetness before he remembered that no one dominated him and broke away to breathe. It was hard to get used to kissing something cold, but exponentially rewarding because it made the shivers of heat all the more intense. He leaned up and roughly slid the line of his mouth across Russia's jaw, pleased by the other's tense inhale. He returned to repeat the stroke, this time licking, toying, fondling.

Russia's hands slinked up beneath his shirt, tracing, raking. Almost feral, deliciously cool against his skin which simmered with a feverish heat. America used the very tip of his tongue to trail a meandering path down the side of Russia's face, up and around his neck, his chin, halting at his earlobe. He took the sensitive flesh between his teeth, nipping and sucking and twisting. Russia shivered away and buried his face in the collar of America's jacket, nosing the fabric aside to nuzzle America's collarbone. America felt teeth, sensed the smirk through the taunting, ghost-light pressure of an icy tongue, and ground his hips roughly downward into Russia's. He had to bite back a moan, hands tangling in and tearing at ashy-colored hair—

Russia's hair came out in tufts. Sliding away in America's fingers as if it had never rooted. America stared at the dull, snarled softness with muted horror, then wrenched himself away from Russia as if repulsed. Everything came crashing back in shattered chaos.

Shit. Shit. He'd gotten so caught up in kissing that he'd forgotten about the fall of the Soviet Union. Forgotten that no matter fiercely he fought, today, Russia was something fragile. Easily harmed, easily squandered.

And why the hell had he been making out with Russia in the first place? The answer was boundless, immeasurably vast: he had no fucking clue.

Now it was awkward, hesitant, uneasy. A monument of staggered edges, where sunshine and ice had strove to cataclysmically connect but splintered apart while their bond was premature. America still held the thin clumps of Russia's hair in his hands. Russia brushed some stray saliva from his cheek. Both were flushed, panting, breathless. But stunned into lukecold silence. "It's alright." Russia muttered, catching America's gaze, and it took him a moment to realize that Russia meant about the hair. Amethyst eyes dragging into his own, sullied by weariness, but almost scorching in their intensity.

America could only stare. I'll give you warmth. I'll give you Texas. I'll give you Arizona's summer heat, was what he thought, was what he truly, desperately wanted to say. But he wasn't sure of the implications, didn't quite believe that Russia would be capable of understanding. And it would sound ridiculously sappy coming from his lips.

Russia ran his tongue across the roof of his mouth, savoring the fading warmth. The chill had returned, bearing down on his limbs, infinitely, achingly empty. When he'd been crushed against America the cold had lifted. For a few saccharine moments he'd been spared, liberated, blissfully light. He needed America. He needed his heat. Better than a thousand shots of vodka, to keep away the madness, if only for tonight.

Russia edged cautiously closer to America. Gravitating toward the sunlight. "Sorry," America murmured, still stricken by the hair. Russia snatched it from his open palms and tossed it aside— it didn't matter. It wasn't much hair, and it would grow again. He considered telling America that he'd bruise easily, tonight, but decided against it. He could care less about bruising, and didn't want America holding back.

"It's not over." Such a simple sentence, but the way it was phrased sent a thrill trembling down America's spine. "The Soviet republics haven't completely disintegrated." Soft, but Russia's gaze was penetrating. His head was tilted, regarding America from beneath long, ashen eyelashes. Something in that stare made America's breath hitch, catching in his throat. Russia slinked closer. The movement possessed an innate grace. "This is the last night." Russia's cheeks were flushed. It was disconcerting to see skin so pale tinged with color.

"I want you to stay with me." It was almost desperate, just above a whisper. Cool hands cupped America's face. Implausibly gentle, considering that this was Russia.

Russia kissed, light, immeasurably slow, trying to impart the solemnity of his plea. Their tongues met, ghosting together. This time, just tasting. Riding the rhythm of the other's breaths. America was fluid sunlight, with an aftertaste of char. Russia's lips were faintly reminiscent of tarnished water.

Reluctantly, they broke away. America nuzzled close, draping his arms around Russia's neck. Become one with Russia, he pondered. He was in too far. It would be almost impossible to back away now. Lost in the Siberian wilderness, he was incapable of retreating to the light unharmed. Untouched. Unchanged. Untainted. And somehow, it didn't really seem to matter.

Russia's voice came in a shivering whisper. "Today, I'm the USSR. Tomorrow, I'll just be Russia." America's hands dipped down to Russia's torso. Slipped between the folds of his jacket, threaded up beneath multiple layers of clothing. Trailed across his chest, reveling in the exaggerated bump and trough of each protruding rib. Russia's words were whispered almost against his ear: "I don't want to feel so cold." Scarcely audible. "I don't want to feel so empty."

It was wild, rash, compulsive. It didn't make sense. But then nothing was making sense anymore. Where Russia was involved, he wasn't sure if anything he'd done had ever made sense. Shit. He'd stay.

"America." it was rushed, almost panted, because America's hot, moist breathes on his neck were driving Russia absolutely insane, "Give me your sunlight." America looked up into hungry, rusting violet eyes, watched them crash and crumple and fray with the final strains of socialism.

Hoarse and heady, brilliantly, breathily seductive:

"Resurrect me."

And America smirked and kissed and complied, because he was the hero, because he was in control, because Russia was so entirely, eagerly, majestically willing.

Because the former Union of Soviet Socialist Republics was so raggedly, heart-wrenchingly, brazenly beautiful when he screamed.

--

Russia stirred. His skin felt too tight for his body, tender, as if it had been scoured raw. He reached for the nation who'd gone to sleep beside him, but his fingers curled in empty air. Absent. America had left some time during the night. The spot where he had laid was soft, wrinkled. Still faintly warm. He hadn't been gone for long. Russia buried his face in America's pillow. Allowing himself a moment to savor the faint, lingering scent.

He pushed himself up among bloodstained sheets. His blood—? America's blood—? The blood of the fallen Soviet Union—? He didn't know, but found it relieving to presume it was the latter. The dawn was the color of skyline, thin and wet and new. The palest shade of azure. He was sore, sore all over. Sluggish, tiring, yet a comfortable soreness. As if he had been purged, purified. Reborn.

The ghost of a smirk flitted across his lips. No, resurrected. He didn't know where his relations stood with America now— they weren't quite adversaries. Definitely not lovers. He found himself wanting to settle for somewhere between shaky and tenuous, yet strong. Neither of them would forget this night.

Russia felt as though he had been steeped in sunshine, then wrung and left to dry. Hollow. A fragment of his former self. But some shred of America's heat had remained.

He trailed reverent fingers down the bared skin of one arm. Warm. For the first time in ages, centuries, millennia.

Америка, вы остались.

America, you stayed.

--

Translations:

Остановитесь.- Stop

Отойти. бросить меня.- Go away. Leave me.

Нет- No

Я утопить.- I'm drowning.

Пребывание со мной.- Stay with me.