Hours later, America awoke, kicking off his blankets and feeling for a warm body beside him. Finding no one, he sat up, making soft sounds of dismay.

"I am right here," Russia told him, rising from from he'd been sitting beside the window, looking at the stars. They'd fallen asleep while it was still light outside, and Russia had woken with a start to find the sky dark and gray with lingering purple clinging to the horizon; the sun had just set.

He crossed the room, smiling at the sight of America blinking sleepily, his hair all a-mess. He looked adorable - and damnably young. Russia sighed and tried to put that thought out of his mind. All that mattered right now was being here, beside America - beside Alfred - warm and safe. And wanted.

America held out his arms to him as Russia approached, and Russia sank into them, letting America pull him back into the bed. Their legs tangled as they curled up together, America gently tracing the lines of Russia's face with the tip of a finger, as though learning him by touch. The great curve of his nose. The upper lip and then the bottom lip. The line of his jaw. Even a soft brush against his eyelids.

"America," Russia croaked out, "c-come, I still have much to show you." He quickly shed his own undergarments, leaving himself nude again.

America, who had never dressed again to begin with, moved closer so that bare skin could touch bare skin. "What do you want me to do, Russia?"

Russia shifted so that he was laying on his back, bending his knees so that America could fit between them. Russia felt America's arousal brush his leg as he climbed atop Russia, and moaned a little at the sensation.

America's eyes were wide and fever-bright with a kind of understanding, a longing. Something primal deep inside him knew what to do. "Will I," America licked his lips, "will I hurt you?"

"I will be all right," Russia assured him, reaching between them and guiding America to his entrance. He couldn't help bucking up a little, his own penis seeking the warmth of America's skin. This moment, this Russia loved - the comforting weight on him, the bare skin, the delicious tension before penetration.

Such a shame that Russia trusted almost no one enough to allow them into his body.

Russia licked his fingers and touched between his legs, wetting himself enough that the friction would not be painful for either of them. When America faltered, looking down guiltily like he was still afraid of accidently hurting him, Russia told him, "I won't break."

At that, America actually winked, and Russia was still gaping at him when he felt America enter him. He pushed his head back into the pillow and breathed through it, "Aaaaaaah" under his breath. He could hear America panting over him, his hot breath touching Russia's face.

America sank into him, their bodies slowly melding together as Russia adjusted to him. Russia watched in fascination as America's mouth fell open, his pants turning to low moans.

"Oh my god," America groaned, before burying his face against Russia's neck. After a moment he threw his head back, exposing his throat, as though gazing into heaven itself. Perfect bliss.

Russia grasped America's forearms for leverage and leaned up to kiss America's throat. "Slowly, now," he urged, fighting to keep his own voice calm. "Yes, there you go. Slowly. Let us - ah - let us come together."

America pushed in further until he was seated inside Russia. By now, his arms were trembling with the strain of holding himself back; Russia could feel the incredible tension in his body. Pleasure bolted through Russia's body at the thought - America, who was so young and so strong, America would hold himself back, he would lay with Russia and do as Russia asked, without question. There would be no force. There would be no pain. Russia would be a gentle teacher, and America, his eager pupil.

There was a reason Russia hadn't admitted to himself before, a reason he had allowed himself to take America to bed. The thought that if not him, then surely sooner or later someone would take America's virginity - and perhaps they would not be so gentle, they would not care for him, but only break him as though he were a beast, Russia thought to himself.

Above him, America tried a thrust, a little too hard it was true, but from youthful inexperience rather than a desire to invade. Russia raised his hips to meet him, and on the second thrust they found a rhythm. America, who was proving delightfully vocal in bed, said, "Oh god, Russia, it's like everything - I've ever wanted, better than that, maybe." He reached up and braced one hand on the wooden headboard before him, as though needing something solid to cling to.

Russia's own breathing grew ragged as his pleasure mounted. He slipped his free hand between their bodies, stroking himself in time to America's thrusts, his other hand still clutching America's forearm. He was almost completely hard and on the way to a satisfying climax when America by chance touched that little spot of pleasure deep within him. Russia cried out beneath him, his violet eyes fixed on America's face as though beseeching him for more.

America, impossibly, clutched at the headboard harder and drove down again, right where he'd been. Russia thought he'd go mad with the sensations racing up his spine. He stroked himself, aching for more, just a little more, and then he could - and there, like a key sliding into a lock, and white exploded across his vision.

Russia came with a roar, bucking upwards, almost throwing America off of him. America followed him, shouting out Russia's name even as the headboard cracked and came apart in his hand. He released inside of Russia, and Russia's eyes went wide as he heard not only splintering wood, but the ripping of cloth. America's other hand ripped right through the blankets and mattress, shredding it as easily as might a bear's claws, and his bed bled feathers and stuffing.

He sank onto Russia, his body shaking with the force of his release. They lay limp, sticky, sweaty, yet content. After several long minutes, Russia brushed the hair back from America's face and kissed him again, murmuring, "Oh Fredka, the things I will show you!"

Three days later, with great regret, Russia had to leave.

He followed America down to the port on leaden, reluctant feet. A few days of delight, followed by years of snow, war, rebellion - what lives they led, nigh-endless but never entirely their own.

Standing beside the ship, awkwardly facing each other and trying to ignore the questioning eyes of the sailors and diplomats, America and Russia said their goodbyes.

"Ah," America said, reaching up to touch Russia's jaw with his fingertips under the pretense that he was adjusting his scarf. "I want you to know that, no matter what, I'll never regret this."

Russia gave him a half-smile. "Never? Never is a long time."

A soft little scoff. "No matter what. No regrets." His own smile wavered a little at the edges. "You and me against the world, Ivan."

Russia looked at him, his young, hopeful friend who thought the world of him. The moments they had together - the intimacy they had shared - the trust America had given him - were beyond price. When he shut his eyes, Russia could see an afterimage of America: golden, hot, warm. He swallowed, hard. "Alfred, I -" he began to say, and then his eyes slid open and he quickly said, "I must be going. Don't forget me."

America gave a little bark of laughter. "As if I could."

Russia climbed on board, and stood at the railing, watching America even as his ship opened her sails. The vessel pitched as she pulled away from the dock. America stepped forward, then began to walk, and then sprang into a full run. "Come back soon!" he called, even as Russia's ship pulled further and further away. "I'll be waiting for you!"

America slid to a stop as he reached the edge of the dock. Russia stared at him, silhouetted in the sunlight, and inhaled a breath of salty sea air and called out, "You and I against the world, Fredka! I will return!"

America stood there on the dock, one hand raised in farewell, until Russia sailed out of sight. He wasn't sure if America had heard his final call.

Russia hoped valiantly that he had.