The Lithuanian led the slightly younger man through the house to which he was so accustomed, pausing constantly to wait for the new guy to finish gawking at a painting or vase.
"Whoa, man, this place is, like, huge!" the American cried loudly.
"Well, yeah, Russia's place is the largest—and I have a name! I am a country, you know!" he snapped.
"Whatevs, Bithania," the blond replied absentmindedly, staring off at a large stone bust.
"Bithania?" the shorter man squeaked, outraged. "Maybe Toris would be easier for you to remember."
"Whatever you say, Tortoise."
"No, idiotas. Toris, not Tort—oh, I give up. Here's your room." He seemed glad to be rid of the American as he pointed to a large wooden door across the hall.
"Thanks, bro," the taller man called after the hastily leaving Lithuanian. He pulled open the door to his new room and stepped inside, letting it click closed behind him. He saw the bathroom attached to the side of the room with a toilet, shower, and sink; the bed pressed against the opposite wall to his right; the window that spanned from said bed to the armoire across the room. The room was small, but not cramped.
I want to go home, was his first thought. The teenager let a sad smile grace his lips. This is my home how, he reminded himself as he plopped down on the bed. He laid there for almost an hour before a knock at the door startled him.
"Come in," he called softly. A moment later, the doorknob turned and light from the hall flooded the room.
"Dinner is ready if you are hungry, Mr. America." It was the second servant in the vast house. The younger teenager pushed up his glasses with his finger and they glinted in the artificial light. He seemed to be waiting for some sort of reply.
"Oh, uh, okay. Should I change?" he asked mildly, quite intimidated by the younger man's demeanor.
"What you are wearing is fine."
"Okay, thanks, uh…"—he trailed off, not wanting to insult the serious-looking teenager.
"Estonia." With that, the door was shut and the room was plunged back into the dimness that Alfred had not noticed until now.
Guess I should go down for dinner….
After what seemed like hours of being hopelessly and utterly lost, the American finally found the dining hall. His cheeks flushed from embarrassment he took a seat near the end of the table where he was flanked by two nameless servants.
Although the food was good—delicious, in fact—Alfred couldn't shake this feeling of unease as if he were being watched by a powerful entity.
When the meal was finished, he rose from the table, cleared his plate, and started to leave the dining room when a voice stopped him.
The sound was soft and feathery, but immense power loomed under its surface. Alfred knew instantly who it was.
"Oh, Ivan, you look nice tonight." The Russian was wearing a jet-black suit with glinting, glossy buttons adorning the black shirt underneath. The white of the scarf was a start contrast to the black surrounding it. The younger's comment was not a lie; the outfit hugged his frame flatteringly.
"As do you, Alfred, but I would much rather see you in your uniform. You'll find it in the very top drawer of the dresser in your room."
"Uh, okay," the blond replied, more a question than anything. Ivan did not seem to notice and if he did, did not care.
"Meet me in the Grand Parlor at noon tomorrow; don't be late."
Before Alfred could ask where that was or what the uniform that the Russian was so keen on seeing him in was, the older man turned and hurried out of the dining room.
Now, how do I get back to my room?
The teenager finally got to his bedroom, exhausted and annoyed.
He stepped into his room; stripped down to his star-printed boxers; and threw himself into the bed, not bothering to pull the comforter around his body before he fell fast asleep. It was something he would regret in the morning.
Alfred woke up at eleven, shivering from the cold. He noticed the time and rolled out of bed, landing on the floor with a thunk and a groan. The American humped to his feet and pulled open the top drawer of the armoire, picking up the folded black and white heap inside.
It unfurled itself as he lifted it by the shoulders. A black maid's dress with white lace trimming around the sleeve and neckline. His blue eyes grew wide as he stared at the short dress.
What?
The American looked the dress over—noting the puffy, girly sleeves.
"Does that vodka-drinking Russian really expect me to wear this?" he muttered to himself.
After a few minutes of scrutinizing the dress, he sighed and lifted it up to pull over his head when something small fell to the floor.
Alfred pushed aside the tulle and looked at the white heap on the floor by his feet. He placed the dress on the bed behind him and reached down to pick it up. He took the satiny material in his fingers, stretched it taut, and jumped upon recognition. It was a small, white, lacy pair of underwear that looked as if it would be better suited on a woman.
Oh, God, no…
About twenty minutes had passed before the teenager finally managed to get the uniform on correctly. He looked at the time again and cursed quietly. He only had fifteen minutes to find and get to the Grand Parlor—whatever that was. And, of course, he couldn't let anyone see him in that dress.
After getting lost repeatedly—trips he called "detours to avoid prying eyes"—he ended up in a huge room that must have been the parlor.
"You're late," the same feathery voice from dinner said, causing the teenager to jump and turn around.
"Y-yeah, I got lost," Alfred stammered, very conscious of his outfit.
"Lost? I have many servants; you could have asked one for directions. Anyway," he continued, not giving the American a chance to rebut, "Do you see that vase over there?"
"Hmm? You mean that one?" As the teenager turned, his shoulder bumped a nesting doll adorned with brightly colored sunflowers, sending it tumbling off its pedestal and rolling through the air toward the ground. Alfred yelped and flailed in an attempt to catch the doll before it broke. He managed to grab hold of the bottom half, but a moment later, the top slipped off. It fell to the floor with a resounding clang, allowing the smaller dolls to follow suit.
Shit! Shit, shit, shit!
Suddenly, but slowly, the taller man rose from his seat. The American now saw that he was dressed in a coat of deep red—almost black—with his trademark white scarf and a scarlet tie. He almost looked better than he had the night before—something the blond wasn't sure was possible.
His strong-featured face was unreadable as he said, "Follow me," and turned to leave the room. But, wait; was that a hint of a smirk as he turned away?
Alfred, terrified of what would happen if he didn't, followed obediently if not timidly. The taller man led the American out of the huge parlor, through the long halls, and then through tall double doors almost reaching the top of the high ceiling. If not for his guide, the teenager would be hopelessly lost yet again.
"I-Ivan, is this your bedroom? Um, why are we in your room?"
The older man did not reply until he told Alfred to sit on the edge of the bed and wait for him. The Russian slipped into what appeared to be a closet and disappeared for a few minutes. The young American looked around the ornate room, studying particularly detailed vase sitting in the corner.
Large hands fell in front of his face, causing him to flinch backwards. Alfred turned around to see the tall Russian smirking at him. A second later, he felt a cold leather band press against the back of his neck. Quickly and with nimble hands, Ivan buckled the strap so it pressed all around his neck.
"Ivan, what the—is this a dog collar‽"
The older man tugged his hand back slightly and Alfred jumped after it. There was a leash attached to his neck now. The American turned his face away shyly.
"Hold out your wrists." After a minute of confusion and contemplation, the teen held his hands out to his captor, his fingers curled gently in toward his palm and the inside of his wrists facing the ceiling. A pair of metal cuffs were placed and closed on his wrists. The Russian yanked his arms up above his head by the chain and stole the teen's lips. The older man twisted and plunged his tongue into Alfred's mouth, making the less experienced man swoon. His strong arms wrapped as far around Russian as far as the cuffs would let him and he was deeply disappointed when his assaulter pulled away.
Alfred felt the leather rub softly against his neck as Ivan turned the collar around. The Russian let his parted lips almost brush the needy teenager's. When the American would reach out to claim those rosy lips, Ivan would yank the leash back, keeping a painful yet exhilarating distance between them. The Russian kept this up until the boy whimpered and strained at his girly underwear.
"N-ah, I-Ivan"—yank—"Please!"
The older man smirked and felt his excitement press hard against his own pants. Alfred trembled as the Russian finally gave in to his pleas if only for a moment.
The kiss lasted long enough to make the teen swoon and melt, but not enough to satisfy him. The hasty embrace only left him wanting—needing—more.
"D-Damn commie." The American managed to let the words stumble out of his mouth. Ivan leaned in toward his prey and his warm breath enveloped the younger's ear in tantalizingly sweet whisper.
"But you enjoy it. Isn't that right, my little igrushka," the Russian purred.
Instead of replying, the teenager just let a blush dominate his face and he turned away in embarrassment.
"Well? Isn't it? Don't be shy; tell me if you enjoy it." The older man pulled back on the leash and caught the teen's lips at the same moment, leaving Alfred breathless by the time the Russian allowed the kiss to be broken.
Through the course of the cruel denial and the teasingly short kisses, the American had somehow situated himself facing the taller man. Now, the Russian's large hand—the one that did not have the least pulled taut—slowly made its way up his exposed thigh. Alfred, noticing how vulnerable he looked, tried to pull away and regain some dignity, but Ivan had other plans.
He let his hand inch up under the teen's skirt, causing an objective yelp. Ivan chuckled and gently ran his nail along the prominent bulge in the lacy underwear.
Alfred trembled, his reply cut short by the involuntary moan and the shivers racing down his spine.
"A-Ah, Ivan, d-don't," Alfred stammered, feeling his body betray him and ache for more. When the American tried to pull back, his wrists caught in the cuffs and stayed him.
"Come on, say it. If you don't I think I might have to punish you."
I don't! Stop it!
The words fought against his lips, but a moan suddenly overpowered his objection. The Russian had begun to rub the bulge in the teen's underwear lightly.
"No answer? Well, in that case, turn around," the older man purred mischievously. Slowly, Alfred pulled his arms off Ivan's shoulders and turned his back to the taller man, the leather collar rubbing his neck as he did. The younger man felt the leash tug gently as the Russian reached for something.
"Lean forward and stretch your arms past your head: just like that, good boy." Alfred knew that as he bent over, more and more of himself was exposed to hungry amethyst eyes. A piece of cold leather pressed against his ass, making the teen gasp softly. When he tried to turn and see what the object was, he felt it leave his skin and make contact again, but faster and stronger. The impact stung, but forced a whimper of a moan from the young American.
"Is… is that a… a riding crop?" the teen all but yelled, followed by another slap of the leather. "Why do you even own one of those things?"
"Because I can," the Russian replied easily. "Why does it matter if you're clearly enjoying it?" Smack.
Contrary to his objections, the teen felt himself throb with each flick of the crop. "More," he wanted to beg, but his pride and embarrassment kept him silent.
Alfred felt a long, experienced finger pull aside the lacy underwear and begin to prod his entrance. When the American objected with a blush, his tormentor brought the leather crop down harsher on his ass and gave a tug of the leash.
The younger man gripped the sheets tightly in his bound hands as the Russian slipped his finger into the boy's recesses. He twisted his long finger and thrust it roughly, making the American writhe beneath him. A second finger was added, scissoring the younger man; then a third.
The inexperienced teen was at his limit. With a final thrust, he cried out softly and collapsed onto the bed. His release seeped out of the sides of his underwear and the Russian chuckled.
"Finished already?" he teased.
The younger's only reply was his heavy breathing and the deprived moan that escaped his lips as Ivan removed his fingers. Alfred felt strong hands tickle his hips as he gripped the soiled underwear and slowly pulled it down, but not off so that it held his knees fairly close together.
"I-Ivan, w-what are you"—The collar around the American's neck tensed against his throat and Ivan's other hand wrapped around the boy's mouth, muffling his cry at the large intrusion a moment later.
"Relax," the feathery voice cooed as its owner seated himself inside the quivering teen. Once the American had grown accustomed to the older man, his hips writhed gently. Ivan had removed his hand from Alfred's mouth and now he laid the leash down, letting it crumple on the mattress. Strong hands gripped young hips and he began to thrust against the teen, slowly at first, but quickly gaining speed and strength.
Ivan watched the teen, waiting for a true objection or a fierce cry of pain, but the only cries that filled the room were those that seemed to be from pleasure. The Russian played with his angle, grinning as Alfred pressed his lower lip between his teeth and trembled.
"Have I found something tender, lyubov?" the older man purred mischievously, a cat-like grin spreading further across his face. Another thrust in the same direction accompanied by a cry of his name answered the Russian's question. He knew the teen was at his mercy now. And he was going to take full advantage of that.
One long-fingered hand snaked its way around the American's waist and brushed the tip of his heightened manhood. In the same moment, a particularly hard thrust left the teen breathless and trembling. Slowly, he ran his finger down the underside of Alfred's member, tracing the thick blue vein.
"I-Ivan, d-don't…" the American managed to mutter through the deep moans that forced their way up his throat. Ignoring the protests, the taller man wrapped his hand around the throbbing appendage. The young man gasped, the sound quickly turning into a groan as the large hand around his member quickly stroked him, rubbing the tip with his thumb each time.
As the inexperienced teen continued to protest, the Russian inched closer to his own limit. The way the powerful country writhed and begged: it was too much for the older man. He had never seen Alfred look to helpless; so vulnerable.
A deep shudder raced down the younger's spine as he came, coating Ivan's hand, as well as spraying it onto the sheets below him. The older man's thrusts still jerked him forward a bit, but they were uneven and had lost their rhythm. Through his thick pants, Alfred managed to squeak out the other's name. It was a quiet sound, barely above a whisper, but it was enough to finish the older man.
He let out a low groan as he filled the teen who writhed beneath him. A whimper-like moan slipped through the American's young lips as the older man pulled back.
The slighter man slumped into the soft bed, trembling; spent. The room was a bit warmer than it had been when they began, but it was a welcome heat.
Alfred's half-lidded eyes looked at his companion in lusty exhaustion. The older man pulled back and lay beside the teen, smiling tenderly.
"Sleep well, lyubov," Ivan purred to the sleeping teen who curled against the older man's chest as if in response. "I love you," he whispered a few minutes later—even quieter, lest the teen hear him through his sleep. The Russian man felt himself drift to sleep, entwined and entwining himself in Alfred's arms.
Months had passed and the American had become well versed in the layout of the large house, only getting lost on occasion. He missed home, but one piece of his heart ached with a burning vengeance. Although the teen barely went into that room in his old home, knowing it was there had always comforted him. Memories of his father; his mentor; his friend; his brother, almost, lay in that attic. Now it was destroyed with the rest of his home.
"This is my home now," he recalled telling himself on his first day.
For no particular reason, the American longed for home. For hot dogs and hamburgers. For wild parties and superheroes. Alfred had not looked at a calendar for a long time and thusly had no idea of the date. He had been told it was midsummer—sometime early July—but the American did not believe it—it was so cold here. His days blurred together. The teenager took to wandering the halls in his gloom, letting his thoughts drift.
A feathery voice drifted gracefully through the halls. "Alfred?" it called, a hint of worry playing at its edge. The teen looked up from the floor, slightly startled by the older man's appearance. Glancing around, he realized his feet had taken him to Ivan's bedroom doorway.
"Oh, u-uh, hi," he stammered, feeling suddenly nervous.
"Is something wrong, lyubov'?"The Russian had taken to calling him that, but to this day, the teen had no clue as to its meaning.
"Nothing," the younger man lied quickly. As soon as he expected, the other noticed the falsehood and called him out on it.
"You cannot lie to me. You must know that by now. Now, what is bothering you?"
Alfred took a deep breath, looking up at the Russian. "W-Well, I kind of miss home. I… I miss Arthur."
A touch of sadness crept into the Russian's eyes, then a smile to his lips with the same feeling behind it.
"Follow me, lyubov. There's something I should have told you about a long time ago.
"Huh?" Alfred followed the older man to a part of the vast house that he never knew existed. A small, wooden staircase snaked upwards looking very out of place in the elegance of the rest of the home.
"Go on up," he said, gesturing toward the stairs with a nod of his head. "Go on," he urged gently at the teen's uncertainty. The younger man tentatively climbed the old, creaking steps and pushed open the door at the top. He climbed into the attic and looked around. What he saw shocked him.
For a minute, he forgot where he was. Memories flooded back to him as he registered his surroundings. The boy of toy soldiers in one part of the room; the blue, crossed uniform he wore so long ago in another. It was as if the American's attic had been transferred to the other side of the world to lay hidden in the vastness. Alfred felt a large hand draw close to his shoulder, pause, and pull back as if the Russian had thought better of it. For a moment, the blond was speechless; Ivan seemed to respect this, as he did not speak either.
"I… I don't know what to say," the teen whispered simply, but distantly as if he were still in the mystical land of memories.
"Do you like it?" asked the feathery voice with almost a pleading undertone. The American turned to look at the older man whose handsome face matched his voice. Those deep eyes seemed to be searching for something. Was it just the other's happiness or was it something more? Forgiveness, maybe?
"Ivan… thank you, I don't—how did you do this?" he replied, his words failing him and stumbling over each other.
The older man opened his mouth, but each time no words came out. His large hand reached up and rubbed the back of his neck nervously. "D-Do you like it?" he repeated, not meeting the American's eyes for longer than a fleeting moment.
"Yeah, I love it," Alfred answered, his voice just over a whisper. His smile was warm and sincere, and his eyes were the same.
The taller man only smiled, his pale cheeks dusted a rosy pink.
"H-hey, Alfred…"
"Yeah?"
"There's a, uh, there's some fireworks tonight. I was wondering if, you know, maybe you wanted to go see them. I can get us a great view."
"I'd like that," the younger man said after a decidedly long pause.
After what seemed like the longest hike in the young country's life, the two reached the peak of a lush hill. Snow-covered woods stretched around them, yet they stood in the only clearing for miles. The view they held was that of the distant mountains in their purplish gray hue, the sunset bathing them in its orange glow.
"Augh, are we there yet?" the teen wailed, hunching over slightly with his hands on the top of his thighs above his knees.
"Yes, lyubov. We're here." The Russian stifled a chuckle at Alfred's little tantrum. He lowered himself onto the snowy ground, placing his hands behind himself and leaning back onto them. The younger did the same, pulling one knee up comfortably.
They watched the sunset in silence, and then stared at the quickly darkening sky, watching the stars pop up one by one, revealing the cosmos in their glory. "Look, it's starting!" the older man whispered excitedly when a small crackle followed a small red flash in the sky. The American looked at his companion whose face was so bright and alive that he wondered if this was the Russian's first time seeing fireworks like this. Instead of watching the display, the teen watched Ivan, smiling when he became excited and stifling small laughs when he cringed at the sound.
During a lull—or what would be considered a lull in the ever-bustling night sky—Alfred called over the noise. "What's the occasion?"
"Do you not know the date?" the Russian called back, still grinning from an exceptionally bright firework. Alfred shook his head in reply. "It is the fourth of July, lyubov. I thought you would like a little piece of home on a day like this."
The American was taken aback. It really was the first time Ivan had seen fireworks like this. And all for him. In the darkness, he blushed, hiding his new smile from the man.
They sat in silence for the rest of the show until it started to slow down, signaling the nearing of the end and the finale—the best part in Alfred's opinion.
"You know, I think I wouldn't mind staying here—with you, I mean."
The older man seemed startled at the comment and his amethyst eyes widened then softened as he gazed upon the teen.
"That's good because I, uh…"
"Hmm?" Alfred chimed in. He had never heard the Russian stammer like this and he could see a deep blush dominating Ivan's face.
"I… I love you," the taller man said as quickly as the words would tumble out of his mouth. Uncertainty clouded deep purple eyes. He had no right to say that. He had destroyed his affection's house and taken him against his will. So, Alfred's reply took the Russian completely by surprise.
"I… love you too, Ivan," the younger man whispered.
As the roaring grand finale painted the sky with an array of colors, the kiss of two lovers was as sweet and tender as the breeze that twirled the fine snow about them.