During the long voyage to America's lands, Russia lay below deck and daydreamed. He dreamed about lazy summer days, endless fields of wheat and corn, cloudless blue skies, full bellies, and most of all, welcoming, embracing arms.
America had the warmest embrace Russia had ever known; he almost flew into Russia's arms whenever he saw his friend. Russia had been bewildered by this at first. None of the other nations welcomed him so enthusiastically, aside from his poor mad sister Belarus. They all kept a step back, offput by his bulk and barbarity and the way everything he touched seemed to freeze. All but America, who did not fear the cold, and who was not mad like dear Belarus. He neither feared nor disdained Russia, and the way he looked up at him with those sky-blue eyes, so adoring and hopeful, had made Russia blush so furiously before that he had to duck and hide his face up to his nose in his scarf, lest anyone see him flushing red.
The nearer they came to dock in America's port, the more Russia could almost feel phantom arms embracing him, holding him close, could almost feel the youth's heartbeat through his thin cotton shirt. Russia sighed and stared out the tiny cabin window, straining for a glimpse of Virginia's green shores. Sometimes, I think Amerika is the only person who is truly happy to see me.
The ship had barely docked before America galloped up on a horse, panting, his trousers stained by the dust kicked up by his mount's hooves. "Ivan!" he cried excitedly, waving his arms to get Russia's attention. "Why didn't you tell me you were coming? I sighted your ship through my telescope and almost broke my neck riding here to meet you!"
Russia chuckled at that. He swung down off the ship and walked towards America, hand held out in greeting. "I wanted to surprise you, my little friend. Ah, but you're so not little now, yes? You've been growing since I saw you last."
America grasped his hand and used it to pull Russia closer, clasping his arms around him tightly. Russia gasped a little as all the air was forced from his lungs, as though America had remembered his freakish strength at the last moment and hadn't quite tempered it enough.
"I've grown an inch or so," America told him, letting go just enough that he could look Russia almost in the eye. Russia realized that if he stepped closer, he could kiss America's slightly sunburnt nose without bending down, and the thought made him giggle. America took that for mockery and pulled a face at him. "Don't believe me, huh?"
"Oh, no," Russia shook his head, pulling his arms away so he could raise his hands in appeasement. "I believe you! You are getting bigger and stronger all the time."
America glanced away. "Sometimes I think you're the only one who always believed in me, Ivan," he said.
Russia was a little uncomfortable with all the humans around to eavesdrop on them, so he quickly changed the subject. "Let us go for a stroll, da? Will you show me your city?"
America proudly took him on a personal tour of his little Virginia city with its neat little wooden houses. They walked by boys whitewashing fences, summer flowers bursting forth from every nook and cranny, girls bustling by busily with little woven baskets in hand. Russia inhaled deeply, breathing in sweet-smelling air, and his shoulders dropped a little as he exhaled, as tension melted from him.
They stopped to linger beside a pond, and from across the way they caught a glimpse of a couple walking together, enjoying the sunset. The woman walked in step with the man, each stealing glances at the other when they thought they might not be noticed. Russia and America paused, watching them as they walked around a curve in the road and disappeared from sight, still caught up in a world that encompassed only the two of them.
America turned to look at Russia, and the sun lit him from behind, making his hair glow gold and white around the edges. "I'm glad you came to see me," America told him softly.
Too humbled by America's sincerity to respond, Russia only nodded, hoping that America would recognize his response as shyness and not as discomfort. It almost hurt to see America like this now, aglow with youth and the promise of youth, full of everything good. America was not beautiful, but he was young and strong and full of life, and Russia was glad that he was not beautiful, for that brought him back down to earth, made him seem obtainable. America looked away, as though for one last glimpse of the lovers, and Russia reached out, his hand barely brushing a strand of America's hair. It was much softer than he had expected, and he had a sudden wild desire to tangle his hands in it, to grasp America by the hair and pull his face close for a kiss.
America turned back, and Russia pulled his hand away, but not quite fast enough. America looked at him curiously even as Russia dropped his gaze to his feet, guilty hands falling to his sides. Suddenly he felt as barbaric as the other nations believed him to be, wishing to take America, America who thought the world of him, and lay him down beneath him. Russia wondered if America had ever been touched, wondered if that was why England had fought to keep him. His hands unconsciously twisted into fists.
"Russia, you..." America began, but cut himself off when a light flashed before his face, like a minature lantern.
Russia almost crossed his eyes trying to follow the little blinking, flying light. "This is one of your - what is your word - thunder bugs?"
"Lightning bugs," America said cheerfully, gently cupping his hands around the flying insect. After a moment, a light flashed, making his hands glow from within. America grinned up at Russia, then opened his hands again, letting the insect escape. More flashes of yellow-green light dotted the landscape as the lightning bugs took to the air. "They're everywhere in summer here. Do you have them in Europe?"
"Da, there are some in Europe." Russia reached out a finger; a lightning bug alighted upon his fingertip for a moment, then flew away. "Mostly they are living only in... very warm places."
"I couldn't imagine summer without them!" America said, and his teeth were very white as he smiled. "Watching them dance at dusk, searching for mates-" he cut himself off abruptly, saying "So you wanna head back now?" a little too quickly to be natural.
Russia arched an eyebrow but said, "Lead the way, Fredka."
Virginia was blanketed in darkness and sleep by the time they made it up the winding road to America's house. They shared a loaf of bread and some wine, neither feeling very hungry. They talked a little of politics, a little of history, but soon enough settled into a comfortable silence. America lit a candle and led Russia upstairs to the guest bedroom. It was small and warm, with a brass bed pressed against the wall, covered with a handmade quilt. Russia took one look at it and knew that his feet would hang off the edge of that bed, but he didn't want America to feel bad about it, so he kept quiet.
"Good night, Ivan," America said, stiffling a yawn. He sat the candle on the nightstand beside Russia's bed.
"Спокойной ночи," Russia told him in return, daring to rest a hand on America's shoulder as he did so. America cocked his head to the side and looked at him wonderingly with his sleepy eyes.
"What did you say?"
"I wished you a peaceful night," Russia replied, and they lingered there a moment before he realized his hand still rested on America's shoulder. He pulled it back as casually as he could manage. America shuffled next door to his own room, glancing back once at him over his shoulder as he did so. As soon as his door shut behind him, Russia released a deep breath and sank against the doorframe.
It was not like this before, Russia thought to himself as he undressed for bed. He had first seen America when the latter was only a lad, tagging along after England. England had clucked around him like a hen with one chick when it came to the boy, so Russia hadn't had the opportunity to interact with him much, but as he grew older the two gravitated to one another, as though caught in the other's orbit. Russia thought America was brave and had ridiculous amounts of promise, and for his part America seemed to find Russia... fascinating. It was America's naked fascination with him that left Russia so anxious. He didn't know quite what America wanted from him, and he doubted America knew, either.
He lay in bed, restless, until he rolled over and pressed himself against the wall, imagining America on the other side doing the same, the two of them stretched out lengthwise, seperated only by a couple inches of wood and paint. Russia pressed a hand to the wall dividing them, pretending he could feel the heat of America's body, the thrumming of his heartbeat, the rustle of his body in his sheets. After several long moments he realized this was doing nothing to help him sleep, so he sighed and slid his hand between his legs instead.
Russia didn't like touching himself; his hands were too rough and clumsy, and it was almost impossible to pretend they belonged to someone else. Most of the time this didn't bother him, for when he had no one warming his bed, he didn't think about sex much. But the thought of America laying in the next room, so close that Russia fantasized that he could reach out and tangle his hands into America's blond hair, made him so hard that he couldn't help but take himself in hand.
He tried to jerk off quickly, get it over with, but unbidden, images of his young friend sprang into his mind: America laying on his back on a grassy hill, his shirt unbuttoned to reveal his chest; America looking rumpled and well-fucked in his bed; America licking Russia's cock with long strokes of his tongue, eyes closed blissfully. That last image made Russia bury his face in the downy mattress in a frantic effort to muffle the groan he released as he climaxed. He prayed America didn't hear him as he spent into his hand.
Russia rolled over onto his back, panting. He groped for yesterday's shirt, neatly folded on the nightstand beside him, and wiped his hand on it. Running his other hand through his hair, he frowned when he felt a bit of fresh sweat in his hairline. I am being a callow boy, Russia thought ruefully.
After the deed, Russia felt a bit guilty for thinking of his young friend that way. America was far older than any human could hope to live, but by the standards of their kind he was barely more than a baby. Naive, good-hearted America who trusted him completely, trusted him when he could not trust any other nation, not even his own twin brother. Russia slid his eyes shut. He hoped he would never have cause to make America lose his faith in him.