The Game
Prologue

Russia's Manor
Moscow, Russia
December 30th
6:34 AM, Moscow Time

The first thing America noticed after entering Russia's bedroom were the amount of vodka bottles strewn about the floor. Looking around the rest of the room, he saw that the floor wasn't the only thing in disarray. The heavy curtains, in desperate need of repair, or better yet, replacement, were completely drawn over the windows, blocking out the morning sun. The room was completely dark save for the stray sliver of light that managed to cast a dusty glow across the messy blankets of the king size bed. And through the poor lighting, America could tell by the state of the wallpaper (already aged and easily torn from the wall, now with bits of it stripped from the wall in shreds) and the interesting arrangement of the furniture (a chair was on its side, cracked, the leg hanging limply at an odd angle) that there had been some sort of scuffle. Weather it had been Russia's own doing, or the result of a fight from an unwelcome guest America did not know. But one thing was for sure- whatever had happened the previous evening Russia had not exactly come out on top, if his current state of being- passed out and looking more than a little worse for wear- was any indication.

America shook his head. More often than not this was how he found the older nation, passed out in an alcohol induced slumber.

He crossed the carpeted floor, mindful of the creaking panels, not wanting to wake the other just yet.

When he was certain that he was still asleep, he smiled to himself, rubbed his gloved hands together (He didn't care if he was inside- Russia was fucking cold.) and pounced on the bed, successfully landing on top of the sleeping form. "Happy Birthday, Russia!" he sang.

Both of Russia's eyes shot open and a look of complete panic crossed his face before he realized who his attacker was. "Pryvet, America," he sad. "Is this how you plan on waking me from now on?" His tone seemed slightly perturbed- surely his voice was more than a little rough around the edges- but he did not move to push the blond off, nor did he try to sit up. Instead, he drew his hands out from under the covers and rested them on the American's thighs, which felt quite comfortable pressed against either side of his torso.

Russia frowned at the feel of the cool, bulky material beneath his fingers; he could barely feel the muscle of America's legs beneath it. "What on earth are you wearing?" he asked.

America rolled his eyes, even though Russia could not see. "It's called a snow suit, idiot. In case you didn't know it's fuckin' minus 10 degrees outside."

Russia raised a brow. "And you required... this get-up to walk from the driveway to the front door?"

"It's cold!" America said defensively.

"The walk could not have been more than three meters."

"Whatever, stop being an asshole. I came to bring you a present."

At those words Russia seemed to freeze as if remembering something unpleasant. His eyes widened in horror as he gripped at America's legs fiercely- not the reaction the younger nation had been expecting. America frowned. "You ok?"

"My... sister has seen herself home, da? You did not run into her?" Russia asked, the tremor in his voice extremely noticeable.

America's frowned deepened in confusion. Is that why his room looked so horrible? "No, why?" he asked.

Russia seemed to visibly relax, but gave America a look that seemed to say, 'You really are quite stupid, aren't you?'

Of course America didn't catch it and Russia had the distinct feeling that the lack of lighting had nothing to do with it.

"Good," Russia said after a moment. "That's good..."

America sighed, a little put out. Here he was, ready to put out, and all Russia could think to say was, "Have you seen my sister?" Well, that just wouldn't do. That just wouldn't do at all.

"Don't you want to know what your present is?" America asked, tugging at Russia's scarf playfully, a little grin working its way onto his lips.

But Russia was not looking at him and was only half-paying attention to what the American was saying, suddenly lost in his own thoughts. "I would really rather not celebrate this day," he murmured.

America was about to snap at Russia, or punch his big stupid nose, or something because here he was, having trekked through endless amounts of snow and wind and the horrible cold (for a whopping half a minute, but that was unimportant) to give Russia a totally cool and amazing gift for his birthday (namely himself), and Russia had the nerve to be a party pooper?

It was his birthday, for Pete's sake! His... Oh.

December 30th- Russia's birthday correlated with the founding of the Soviet Union.

Realization hit America like a big, guilt-ridden ton of bricks, and he seemed to shrink inside his snow suit, looking away from the Russian. "Sorry," he muttered. "I er, sorry... Guess I didn't think, er... Sorry," he finished lamely, face burning hot with embarrassment.

Well. Talk about a mood killer. Of course Russia didn't want to celebrate today! Who would? No wonder he had spent the previous night trying to consume twice his land mass in vodka, and add to that the fact that he had evidently gotten a Happy Birthday visit from his psycho sister ...

But that didn't mean that America was going to let Russia waste away in self-pity and boring old angst. America had flown all the way to Moscow to see him for a bit, and dammit, they were going to enjoy themselves!

He took his gloves off and brushed Russia's hair from his face, running a hand down the familiar brow line and jaw. He smiled. "Then how about we just think of it as a late-" He remembered that Russia celebrated Christmas in January, and corrected himself. "Er, early Christmas present, ok?" America made a thoughtful face. "Which actually works out nice, seeing as I didn't get you anything for Christmas."

Russia giggled. "I like the way you think, милочка. Though shouldn't you be at home, getting ready for New Years?"

America shrugged and suddenly found himself trapped beneath six feet of heavy, firm, and conveniently mostly naked Russian. He smirked. Russia brought his face to America's neck; the skin there felt like fire and he reveled in its warmth.

"So I take it you like your present?" America asked happily, eyes half closed.

Russia made a contented sound at the back of his throat and darted his tongue out to glide along as much exposed flesh as he could find.

"So how bout you help me out of this stupid thing," America said. "I was gonna do a sexy stripe tease for ya cause I'm not wearing anything under this but the material is very muchnotbreathable and I am seriously starting to sweat now. And let me just tell you, this is probably one of he most uncomfortable feelings in the entire world."

Russia had to bite back a laugh. Only America would talk like that during foreplay. But that was probably why he preferred to have the American in his bed- He said what he meant and meant what he said. He didn't have to worry about any hidden agendas, not anymore anyways. America's personality had always made the younger nation easy to understand and even easier to goad into a confrontation, and now... now he found it strangely comforting.

Their friendship (they were friends now, right?) and their -America bucked his hips up, pressing their bodies together as Russia nipped at his collar bone and quickly found the zipper to America's jacket- their... Russia could not find the right words to describe his and America's relationship- didn't dare name it. He didn't want America getting any ideas; didn't want to hurt the young, impressionable nation's feelings. Or perhaps he was just lying to himself. Perhaps it was his own feelings he was-

Russia stripped America of his ridiculous winter gear in record time, pushing his thoughts far from his mind before they could fully take from and add to the already vast collection of specters that haunted him.

True to his word, America was complete naked beneath his outerwear. Russia raked his eyes and his hands over the toned body, marveling at just how warm he felt. He trailed his hands down America's sides and the younger nation shuddered at the caress. There had been a time when Russia would have drawn his hands -cold, always cold- back at that reaction, thinking he was getting too close, too personal, but he had long since learned where and how America liked to be touched.

He tucked his hands under the other nation's rear and drew him up. America wrapped his legs around Russia's middle, grabbing his arms and pulling him down, bringing their faces together to kiss for the first time since he'd arrived.

Kissing was, as far as nations were concerned, relatively new for them. Their private meetings had been going on for decades, long before they had the guise of "diplomacy" to hide behind. But while they had grown familiar with each others bodies with rough, quick, needy touches, they had never bothered to take the time to be gentle with each other.

The very first time they had had sex had been during the Second World War. England, America, and he had met in Tehran for a conference and that first night they had simply passed each other in the hall and shared a flickering glance. America had then asked if he'd like to join him for a night cap, and the next thing he knew he found himself with a fist-full of blond hair and red knees as he pounded into the American until they both collapsed from exhaustion.

Russia had thought it to be a one-time deal until he found America and himself meeting, unplanned, after a world conference every so often. Then, much to his surprise, unplanned turned to planned but, well... To anyone else it may have looked like an affair slowly turning into something more, but Russia knew better than that.

He and America did not do love, did not even do romance. They simply fucked. No unnecessary sweet words, touches, or strings attached. Russia knew that America treated his other lovers with more tenderness, more playfulness, but Russia did not mind. That was not what he wanted. At least, that was what he had thought.

Russia remembered the day he had felt a change. It had been sometime in 2002 after a G8 meeting in his capitol. Though their relations at the time had been doing better they were still a little rocky, especially with Russia's reluctance to support the United States in the invasion of Iraq. (Not that their relations with each other as nations had much to do with their sex life, if the Cold War had been any indication.) That night, after meeting upon meeting, Russia had found himself on his back, one hand gripping the metal headboard behind him and the other the sheets at his side as his knees were spread and folded up to his chest. America knelt over him, panting and trembling, rocking and pushing, when suddenly he stopped, balls-deep in his ass, and reached a hand down to stroke Russia's face.

Russia wanted to snap at him to continue, wanted to know why he had stopped when he had been so fucking close, when their eyes met and then strangely, for no reason at all, America leaned down to kiss him.

That had been nearly a decade ago but Russia didn't think he'd ever get used to the way America felt and smelled and tasted, or the way America made his heart-

America was the first to break the kiss. "My glasses," he said by way of explanation. He took them off and tossed them to the far corner of the bed. He looked back up at Russia, crooked smile turning to a frown.

"What's eattin' you?" he asked, noticing the far-off look on the Russian's face.

Russia gave him a small smile, trailing little kisses down his neck to his chest. "It's nothing, милочка. Don't worry about it."

When they finished, both lay on their backs staring at the ceiling. By then, more light had begun to trickle through the crack in the curtains. America frowned, wishing the sun would go back down.

"How long will you be staying?" Russia asked after a few minutes of silence.

America reached for his glasses and stood up, walking towards the bathroom. He didn't turn around to look at Russia. "I actually can't stay much longer," he said. "I've got a plane to catch to Beijing in a few hours, got a meeting with China at 10 tomorrow. I just wanted to stop by and say hi before I left since I probably won't see you for a while."

Russia wanted to grin and silently pat himself on the back for making America fit in enough time for a quick lay even though it had probably inconvenienced him, but after hearing that the blond would be leaving just as quickly as he had come he couldn't bring himself to smile.

"Let me take you to the airport then," Russia offered. "We can have breakfast on the way."

America paused at the door to the bathroom to consider the offer for a moment. "Nah, that's alright," he said. "You go back to sleep. I'll see ya when I see ya."

Of course, Russia thought. That would be overstepping the line, wouldn't it?

Twenty minutes later and it was as if America had never been there. Russia sighed and pulled the covers up over his head, not bothering to clean himself up. He soon fell asleep again, missing the sound of nails scrapping against the glass of his window...

Belarus's Winter Home
Just outside Krasnoselskiy, Belarus
January 25th
3:37 PM, Eastern European Time

The taxi pulled up to a house America had never seen before. He was sure he knew where he was… Ukraine, right? Or maybe Kazakhstan… Well, he was somewhere in Russia's neck of the woods, that much he was certain of. Which had really been the only reason he'd accepted the offer, not that he'd tell anyone that. Regardless, perhaps next time he'd actually pay attention to the address he'd been given instead of just hopping on the next flight to go to some little social party. He got out of the taxi, grabbed his stuff and- "Holy sweet Jesus it is freaking cold here!" he yelled, clutching at his bomber jacket, not really doing much to fend off the nasty weather. (He would have worn his snow suit but it had, um, gotten dirty somehow and he'd never quite gotten around to having it cleaned...)

"Well duh Al, this is Belarus's house and it is winter, remember?" a quiet voice asked from beside him.

He turned and saw Canada standing next to him. How long had he been standing there? America didn't recall flying over with his brother…

"Who?" he asked, teeth chattering.

The younger of the two sighed. "Canada," he said.

America waved his hand (bad idea, fastest way to lose body heat) and shook his head. "No, I know that. (Gosh who forgets their own brother hahaha) I mean, whose house? Who's Belarus?"

Canada gave another long suffered sigh. "Belarus, you know, Russia and Ukraine's little sister."

"You mean the freaky chick with the knife fetish?" he asked.

Canada nodded.

America visibly paled. "So… Remind me again why we're here?"

Canada gave him an annoyed look. "America," he said, beginning to lose his patience, "You insisted we come, remember? You said something about not letting that Commie Bastard become more popular than you. Or something like that."

"B-but Mattie," he whined. "Why didn't you tell me we were going to his sister's house! Remember when she broke Lithuania's fingers?"

Canada began to rub at his temples, mentally counting to ten in French. "America… You should have paid more attention when you RSVP'd her invitation. It would be rude to leave now."

America stared up at the large mansion before him, unabashed horror clearly written on his face. There was no way in hell he was going in there. To America it looked like something out of a horror novel- nothing but darkened windows and plenty of towers for ghosts to haunt, not to mention a barren garden full of leafless trees that looked like they'd reach out to snatch you if you even thought about stepping of the designated walkway. Not to mention all the nasty, nasty snow.

In actuality it was a well-kept estate built in the Neo-Classical style in the early 1890s, but there was no point in telling that to the overly imaginative American. Who had already started to inch back towards the road and pulled his cell phone out to call for another cab.

Canada snatched his brother by the collar of his jacket and drug him back. "We are not leaving, that would be rude!"

America flailed and tried to get out of Canada's grasp. "You just wanna stay to see if Ukraine will be here!" he complained. Canada blushed hotly and opened his mouth to retort, but America kept talking. "And that's totally fine with me! I'm just going to go back home, got a recession to deal with you know, don't really have time to make social visits at the moment but hey, send me a postcard and-"

"Are you… afraid of Belarus?" Canada asked incredulously. It wasn't as if Canada wasn't, but since they (and he assumed other nations as well, judging by the amount and variety of cars parked in the long driveway) had been invited for, as the invitation had stated, "a friendly get together" he figured they had nothing to worry about. Oh alright, and the added possible bonus of getting to see Ukraine didn't hurt.

"Of course I'm not afraid of her!" America huffed. "I just don't want to be maimed," he muttered under his breath.

Canada shook his head. "She's not going to hurt you," he said. "She probably just wants to strengthen ties with other nations over some tea."

"Yeah, or maybe she just wants to get us all in one place so she can kill us all."

"Ugh!" Canada grabbed the handle of his luggage and began the long trek up the frozen driveway. "Come on Kumachi," he called to his polar bear who had taken up residence behind America. "Don't want to go in there," Kumajirou stated.

"See?" America exclaimed. "Even the bear doesn't want to!"

Canada rolled his eyes and kept walking. "Alright, have it your way. But the sun is going to be setting soon. Have fun sitting outside. In the dark. In the cold. In a strange place. And I heard there's a graveyard next door…"

That was all Canada needed to say for America to pick up his duffel bag in one hand and Kumajirou in the other and quickly catch up to him.

"You two are such chickens," Canada said with a laugh.

"You won't be saying that when I have to save your ass from her evil clutches!" America warned.

Canada shook his head and kept walking. America kept a few paces behind, not because he was scared or anything, he was just being cautious. Yeah.

"Your owner is crazy," America whispered, holding Kumajirou close. The little polar bear made a great heater.

Kumajirou just looked up at him with his tiny black eyes, wondering who the strange man carrying him was talking about, and why he was being taken into such a frightening place.

England was sick and tired of waiting in Belarus'ss drafty sitting room. And would it have killed the girl to serve them some tea? Honestly, he hadn't been treated this poorly since his first (and last) visit to France's summer home.

"Angleterre, since our dear hostess seems to be missing," the Frenchman placed a hand on the Brit's upper thigh, "why don't you and I-"

England gripped France's hand, making sure to dig his nails into the soft flesh. "Finish that sentence and see what happens, frog."

France gave a fake sob and drew his poor, abused hand to his chest. "I was merely going to ask if you wanted to have a look around the grounds. You don't have to act like such a brute!"

"Well maybe if you'd just learn to keep your filthy wine-guzzling hands to yourself I wouldn't have to-"

"Can you two like, shut up?" Poland asked, lifting his head from Lithuania's lap. "I'm like, trying to get some beauty sleep over here!"

Just then the front door opened and in walked America and Canada.

Canada gave a curious look around and America came up behind him, holding onto his arm, just in case he needed protection. It wasn't as if he was holding onto his little brother becauseheneeded the comfort.

England, having heard the door, stepped out into the hallway to see who it was.

"I see you got an invitation as well, America?" he asked.

America nodded, peering into the sitting room. "How many nations are here?" he asked curiously, catching sight of France and a few others. He looked around the room and saw that Poland, Lithuania, and Latvia were sharing a couch, China sat in an armchair near the bookcase, North and South Italy shared a loveseat with Germany standing behind it dutifully, Japan sat on the other side of France, and Austria sat at the piano, Hungary and Prussia standing with him.

"Quite a few of us," England replied.

"Where's Belarus?" Canada asked.

"What an excellent question, mon cher," France said. "Why don't you-"

"I am so pleased that you have all finally arrived," a quiet voice came from behind America and Canada, causing them to jump and turn around.

It was Belarus.

She gave them both an eerie smile. They both backed up to stand behind England.

"It is good to see that you all had a safe trip over," she said. "It would have been a pity if you had all died before I got the chance to kill you."

America poked Canada in the side. "See Mattie? I told yo- Wait what?"

Translations:

Pryvet- hello

милочка- Darling

A/N: So I learned a new grammar rule today with the whole "apostrophe plus s" deal. See, I went to a Catholic school. And when we were learning grammar I was taught with religious examples. For example, I was taught to write Jesus' and Moses' not Jesus's and Moses's. So all this time I've been writing Belarus' and Francis' thinking that was correct when I should have been writing Belarus's and Francis's. Why have I not picked up on that till now? -Laughs- Anyways, here's the new and improved (?) prologue with 50 percent more words , background, and sexy times~

Other: In a June 2002 Chicago Council on Foreign Relations study, 81% said the US "has a vital interest" in Russia. In May 2000, 86% told Gallup that "what happens in Russia" is vitally important. In July 1999, 69% rated relations with Russia as "extremely" important to the US national interest. Go on, everybody say it with me: AWW! :D