-:- Pripyat, Ukraine 1989 -:-
America was near-perfect in his Spanish, but it was nothing compared to the way his tongue twisted over consonants in Texas and Tennessee – and nothing sounded more elegantly hard-hitting than the elaborate vowel formations of his New York accent. He'd mastered them all, much as England learned to speak Welsh and Cornish – which always sounded more like entrées that France would serve along with a croissant and cup of overpriced coffee (much too small for his standards.)
America thought it unfair that Russia knew English so well (along with Ukrainian, Belorussian, whatever-ian.) Tainted with the accent of his harsh dialect, he could (but obviously wouldn't) recite Shakespeare in a way that would tweak England's perpetually hard-lined mouth into an upwards curve, but Russia preferred Dostoyevsky and Prokofiev – who might actually be composers or painters, but every Russian name sounded the same to him.
He hadn't learned a word of Russian - spare the obligatory "hello", "goodbye", "thank you", and "please" - everything he'd heard Russia incorporate into his perfect English (leaving America wondering if it was England's English or America's English he spoke... because it mattered!) - and the curse words he'd translated late one evening... although he'd forgotten them already, but he knew that one started with that letter that looked like a 3. He felt a sense of undercover satisfaction when he added another language to his list of "ways to say 'fuck'."
America scribbled Russian phrases on his palm with the intent of impressing Russia, but his nervousness had other plans. Sweaty palms smeared the blue penmanship into an even more incomprehensible hieroglyph that would make him trip and stumble over letters that should never be in succession to each other in the first place (Honestly, how many English words had v and d right next to each other?! What kind of sound is 'vd' anyway?)
And translators couldn't be trusted. It was one of the few times when "I love your eyes" turned into, according to Russia, "I love your fish." America didn't even like fish, and he recalled sharing a steak dinner with Russia that evening. (Still, America smiled because he had gotten Russia to laugh. It was nice to see things winding down.)
But even now America wished he could look over at his clammy palms and try to decipher the blue ink that now looked suspiciously crimson. He could see blue silhouettes formulating in the crimson puddles like a witches' brew.
He wanted to curse in Russian because 'fuck' just didn't characterize the beads of red rising to the surface like Old Faithful. They collected in pools and ran through the canals that were the grooves on America's palm.
Russia's pinprick pupils drew the backwards Rs and the letter that reminded America of a fish, and pale chapped (perfect) lips drawled out the noiseless whispers America couldn't understand. He found his eyes watching the elaborate flips and curls of Russia's strawberry-colored tongue, and he shuddered at the implications of tangling their muscles together.
Tension never tasted so sweet. The caramel aftertaste of America's promise of victory, tainted with the roots of a collapsing empire.
America could feel every word brush over his restless, wordless tongue like the ghost of a passionate kiss he based solely off of the memory of their last encounter. He contrasted Russia's every vowel with a movement hidden behind sealed lips. His tongue dragged across the roof of his mouth with the sound of Russia's harshly formed L as if that consonant was in his mouth instead of Russia's.
The bitter taste of his own blood caught in the corners of his lips and stung like alcohol; a vinegary vodka that America couldn't stand, but one that, when resting on every taste bud in Russia's mouth, made it sweet, curdling – addicting. He couldn't find that brand (that brand of Russian alcohol that made the foolishness of shoving his tongue down the neck of a cheap bottle of Vodka worth it) anywhere in the liquor stores. Smirnoff maybe, but this brand was unique, mixed with the acrimony of centuries of distraught, and strong enough to get him addicted with the initial taste. It burned like swallowing a flaming candle, but the frosty contours of permanently chapped lips hissed against America's curious tongue like dripping icy water on a searing frying pan.
"America!"
A hand lashed out and clasped onto the back of his vest. America felt his stomach hit the wall of abdomen and his ass hit the dirt. He blinked blearily up at the monochrome sky before an equally monochrome figure eclipsed his vision. America's eyes fixated instead on the purple irises and avoided the ashy hair that harmonized with the backdrop. Madness swirled in them, magnetized by the contrast of the neutral skies; smoke swirled in wispy threads and mingled with his platinum hair. Russia cradled a cigarette on his bottom lip. Ashes fluttered down from the blistering tip like leaves in autumn and perched on the left frame of America's glasses.
America had decided centuries ago that Russia was twisted and demonic, and yet he found himself lying awake and wondering what plagued Russia's dreams; was it the tormenting nightmares of his past, or perhaps the memoirs of his bloodstained victories, and then there was the possibility that his dreams were of a future that could only be called "heaven" in the mind of the collapsing Soviet Union.
Or...
Did Russia even dream? Nations dreamed - American knew that after his countless dreams of standing on the banks of Ellis Island and gazing at the Statue of Liberty, wondering if her arm ever tired from having to carry the same burdens that made America's back ache; he was envious of her strong, straight spine because... because his arm had been aching from carrying that same torch before she was even commissioned.
"America," Russia repeated. More ashes trembled from the end of his cigarette. "You almost walked straight into a radioactive zone."
America writhed in the prickly grasses to jar a thorn just left of his spine. Russia moved away and revealed what America presumed to be the sun, because looking skyward caused strain and it was difficult to tell where the sun was with the cloud cover. Something metallic bore against the small of his back, which upon further physical examination turned out to be the muzzle of his RPD. America's palm brushed against the polished wood handle, fingers framed the metal trigger, and he held it in an amateur manner because the gun was Russian. It felt heavier than American rifles, the ammunition chamber seemed awkwardly placed, and most importantly – it wasn't American. The burden of the USSR burned scars into his palms, capitalism and communism clashing in the tiny plane between metal, woodwork, and skin.
He had a berretta snug against his hip, but Russia only laughed at the sight of it, as if there was something more to fear than whatever radioactive creatures inhabited the ghostly city. Although second thoughts brought disturbing pictures of glowing, two-headed rabbits, America firmly believed in the value of his berretta, because, when faced with something two-headed that desired the taste of his flesh, America would thrust the Ruchnoy Pulemyot Degtyaryova into the dirt, tear his berretta from his holster (Russia's terrified howl piercing the afternoon air) and—
"Are you getting up anytime soon?" Russia's fingers curled around the chamber of his Dragunov and he pretended to readjust his scope. A knot of frustration tightened between his stomach and his diaphragm.
"Y-yeah, sorry…" America rocked onto his tailbone and shifted his weight to his right thigh. He drew his left knee to his chest and focused his strength on it enough to get to his feet. He supported the lightweight rifle against his hip and let the metal muzzle slide into the crook of his arm.
"Your hand is bleeding." Russia observed as the blonde nation withdrew his hand from the barrel of his gun. America's eyes glanced downwards to the crimson smears coating the carpentry then to his own hand in mock surprise.
He swore it was Russia who—
"Look at this place," Russia craned his neck towards the mouth of a building whose front entrance had shattered. The windows were nothing but hollow punctures without a trace of glass in its frame. The paint, which America assumed to be formerly white but which only Russia's memories could confirm, matched Russia's hair and Ukraine's skies; Ukraine's skies weren't blue like Montana's. Europeans perpetually stained the azure skies hoary with their centuries of war and disasters worse than these. Even Pearl Harbor still boasted skies of cobalt. "Fifty-thousand people used to live here; now it's a ghost town."
America could do nothing but hum in agreement, as his teeth were chattering too much to spout intelligible speech. Cities like this only existed in the Old West when miners would exhaust the mountain of gold, and in the horror stories he'd read in The Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew. America had heard Russian nursery rhymes before, so by correlation it only made sense for his ghost towns to be more frightening.
In Russia's case it was poles apart. His eyes stained the city with colors of the lively faces of husbands returning from work at the plant, children with their thumbs in their mouths and one hand wrapped around their mother's pinky fingers. Red balloons gently tugged at their bony wrists and Ukraine's people would watch the construction workers bestow life into the canary yellow Ferris wheel. Russia's polished boots crunched over crabgrass, Ukrainian children gathered at the nation's feet with hands like butterfly nets clenching and unclenching at the glossy medals pinned to his uniform. A boy with wheat blonde hair as fair as Ukraine's proudly puffed up his chest when Russia adorned him with his infantry cap. He remembered seeing Ukraine's forced smile that day and just how thin she looked… she hugged her baby brother, but he could feel her fingernails clawing at his back.
"There's the Ferris wheel!" If it weren't for the rib-high elbow Russia felt, he would have come to conclude that America was the wheat-haired child wearing his infantry cap. America's finger rocketed skyward towards the amusement park attraction peering over the building like a setting sun, as it appeared to fall behind the horizon that was the roof of a deteriorating structure. To America's eyes it was relief to see something with even a hint of color after hours of trudging over tarnished grass, past pale structures, and staring at skies that should make his irises turn green with envy. The North American nation kept his eyes locked firmly forwards, down – anywhere but up in fear that if he looked at the sky for too long, its avarice would rob him of the pigment and shower Moscow and Kiev with cerulean. It would snow in New Orleans and Russia wouldn't have to wear such heavy clothes in autumn…
America's eyes fixed on the bulletproof vest gilding Russia's back. Beige wasn't a selfish color like gray or black. America could feel his body being starved of color as his feet seemed to pulverize grass that sublimated from a solid to the dusty air around him. He tried to think of Andy Warhol paintings and MTV, but everything flickered back to the days of black and white television when he was watching the film of Little Boy's devastation on Hiroshima – did reactor four produce a mushroom cloud too?
Did Ukraine have a scar as ghastly as Japan's?
The nations' boots echoed across the chipped ceramic tiles on the floor and on the walls. Ahead was an office with missing windows, and openings to two hallways in the direction of America's shoulders. Russia snorted and took a left, much to America's sudden pang of fear in that taking the wrong path would result in falling into a pit of toxic waste (either that, or there was a possibility that they were walking into the girls' showers.)
He followed closer behind Russia than he'd care to admit and let his eyes wander over matching tile benches and rusted showerheads where people only three years prior would have changed out of their clothing and into their swim trunks, as the end of this hallway (hopefully) led to a swimming pool. He would never admit to the sigh of relief when the optimistic side of him proved trustworthy.
Dusty windows that deviated from their counterparts only parallels away coated the wall opposite of where the winding way spilled into the large open atrium-looking room. The waterless pool matched the scheme of the tiled entrance and the tiled hallways. Foundations creaked, carried on the wind by the abandoned acoustics that, if one were to start singing America the Beautiful (Gimn Sovyetskogo Soyuza, spasiba), would cause the sound to reverberate for minutes more after 'from sea to shining sea.'
He'd been walking so closely to Russia with a distracted eye that he nearly yelped the moment their frames came in contact. Russia stood still enough to make the Venus de Milo look animated. His lavender gaze peered through the scope of his Dragunov and America was tempted to tilt right a little more to see the magnification of those eyes he brazenly adored, even if he risked being sniped from point-blank. He imagined seeing an amused sneer on Russia's face when he "accidentally" pulled the trigger and fired a bullet into America's temple. America imagined his body, like a mangled rag doll, falling into the arid swimming pool for the stray dogs to feast upon. He imagined Russia's cherry tongue running along the frame of the glasses that had clattered to the floor to clean it of his liquid crimson remains and—
BANG.
America ricocheted out of his fantasies just in time to see Russia heave the Dragunov back to his hip. America followed the supposed line of the bullet to find a motionless patch of black and brown fur pressed up against the monochrome tile walls and ohgod that red wasn't rust.
"Stray dog." the taller nation explained as he clicked his safety back on. America didn't double-check to confirm that Russia wasn't lying. Since the helicopter delivered the two of them to the city, America had seen at least a dozen different breeds of canine digging through old apartment complexes searching for a means to cure their protruding ribs. America noticed the same sculptor carving at Russia's torso; he seemed skinnier every time they met. He didn't want to think about how shallow Russia's breathing was or how he'd wince when he shifted his weight to his right leg.
Guess Russia wouldn't have to worry about being protected from two-headed, radioactive rabbits.
Russia pressed the barrel of his gun hard against the small of America's back to urge him on. "Come on. We have a few hours until the helicopter arrives, but there is nothing left for us to investigate." America held his hands up like he was being arrested, watching the gun wavering in the air above him aiming at nothing. He had a subtle expectation of Russia capturing his hands, replacing the mouth of his gun with his own wrists in a painful grip that would be almost worth it when the taller nation's lips found that sweet spot on America's neck near his throat.
When his eyes opened again he found his breathing shallow; Russia pressed on as if it was just another fluctuation in the wind. The windows rattled as America trudged after his companion with a grudge weighing down his feet like he was shackled to the wall (he wouldn't even begin to think about the implications of such an idea.)
"Big Sister really let herself go…" the ash-haired nation dropped the mouth of his rifle toward the grass and wandered en route to the giant round magnum opus of collapsing metal. There's your Andy Warhol, America.
Ukraine used to be incredibly proud of this city; she'd invited her little brother to ride this Ferris wheel during its construction… when he wasn't discussing nuclear disarmament with the very nation standing behind him. He could taste that miniscule sneer tweaking the corner of America's left eye because he was winning, he was winning, that's why he came – just to mock him, to keep an eye on Russia so he wouldn't make off with these impartial nuclear devices. It was his duty as a "Hero," was it not? To rid the world of villains, and Russia so perfectly fit the role.
He'd caught glimpses of the look in America's eyes when he strode into a room with Latvia, Lithuania, Poland, Estonia, and his sisters at his heels: the look of mythological timeframes concerning fastening Russia to the wall with paralleled hips, a gilded fork with the juice of a rare steak lacing its prongs now drawing blood from three punctures in Russia's left kidney, kissing him with a prolonging intention not to draw away even after he tasted blood mingling with the saliva under Russia's tongue. Russia would replace cries of pain with the distracting stir of pleasure, trying hard not to think of the potential infected scar that would soon form over the bleeding tissue.
Russia had seen the scar on Ukraine's lower back, and toward the end of 1986, he would have terrible nightmares about seeing those scars sprout about his body. Scars from fires in Moscow left star-shaped burn marks; invasions from Mongolians left Frankenstein scratches under his jaw line and over his Adam's apple; Civil wars meant internal bleeding and purple bruises over the torso and shoulders. Very few nations were – ah – fortunate enough to receive the nuclear brand of scar. Japan had two: one on his lower stomach and on the skin between his third and fourth rib. The scars burned, even years after the incident. The scar was deep, red like it was conceived the day before, and charred black like looking through the empty body who bore it. America's usually carefree appearance deviated with the silhouettes of burning homes, the smell of rotten Soviet flesh thickening the smoky air, cackling at Russia's pitiful figure huddled up against the collapsed spiral onion dome of his cathedral. The jade and yellow colors bleeding from the palette into a uniform ash white… just like his hair.
This city was the very real image of what could've happened to St. Petersburg or Moscow... Russia shook his head to clear his mind of the haunting images.
His head was pounding rhythmically like the footsteps of a thousand soldiers. His heartbeat could only compare. In full view of the Ferris wheel, especially one that had the leeway to collapse atop of them, Russia felt the lump in his throat double in size. The encrusted windows of the pool foyer rattled in the wind to their right, an apartment complex obstructed the city to their left, and the paved parking lot cracked, fractured, and splintered under nature's retaliation. Colorless pavement split into plate tectonics under the forces of rising crab grass – it was just a wonder that something could still grow here. America could practically see the radiation gushing up like water in a compressed sponge when he stepped onto softened-by-summer earth. Yellow signs with the three black inward-facing fan blades poised like guardians in front of fields with concentrated areas of radiation, and America recalled Russia having to reel him back only minutes earlier when he'd wandered too close to the forbidden territories.
Black, white, forest green – like the color scheme of the whole damn city – and powder blue cars littered the parking lot. In the Ferris wheel's shadow stood a roofed platform with bumper cars pressed against each other and the plaited metal walls just like the ones on Coney Island. America caught eye of a distinctly red one, relieved to know the color wasn't from the ruptured flesh of a stray German shepherd.
America rubbed his knuckles in a circular motion against a dusted driver's side window and peered through the glass. The leather interior matched the pavement of the lot it sat upon, the back seat was littered with glass shards from the rear window and a bird's nest sat between the radio and the stick shift. He saw the reflection of Russia's silhouette approaching from behind in the side view mirror (objects in the mirror are closer than they appear) and felt the muzzle of Russia's Dragunov embed itself against the pressure point right at the axis of his vertebra.
To his relief Russia removed the rifle and braced it over his shoulder. The taller nation felt the cool polished wood brush against the shell of his ear as he tilted his head and scrutinized America with a reproaching raise of his eyebrow. The look read 'stop fooling around' but America was still stuck on the fact that Russia kept prodding him with his loaded gun. "Hey, Russia, would you ju—"
"—We can wait in one of the Ferris wheel carts until the helicopter comes to retrieve us. I'll have a nice sniping position from up there." Way to change the subject you bastard Commie.
"Yeah, sure, let's get into the damn radioactive Ferris whe—wait, sniping what? Are you on a hunting expedition or something? There are more humane ways to put down a dog, you know."
"If there was no apparent danger here, then why would I bring a gun?"
"I don't know." Maybe to take me out and toss my corpse into a radioactive zone?
Russia pushed the gun harder against the American's back and clicked the safety off. With a tone that verbally enlaced itself with his trademark sweet smile – when he wanted something he couldn't have – he leaned in behind America and sought out his ear with his lips. Lean closer…
"Get your ass in that cart, America… or I will shoot this bullet through your pretty little stomach and you'll be seeing the hamburger you wolfed down last night again."
His throat was dry. His tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth, wet the spot on his lip where it split the day before, and tried to generate noises that wouldn't be sexually acceptable. "I think… I think you're lying about the danger… the only danger here is you." But he did not dare to step forward; he wanted to see how far Russia would go with this. America pushed back into the gun until the pain assured the gun leaving a red ring branded on his skin.
"Then you are fortunate that this is the case." The only pinprick of warmth America had felt for two days drew back, taking Russia's sodden breath with him. America bit his lip to suppress a shiver and his incisors raked at the scar symmetrically framing his bottom lip into halves. occurrences
America hadn't the foggiest idea of the dangers in this city. A country whose CIA was as familiar with the location as the general public was with Area 51 jumping on the opportunity to accompany Russia on the mission, while England's SAS was only a fraction less capable than Russia's troops. England's green eyes had rolled clockwise to white and back when America jumped on the chance.
"This mission is dangerous, you brat. There will most likely be officials everywhere with the orders to kill on sight."
"I'll be fine, sheesh. Who would want to go to a creepy radioactive ghost town like this anyway?"
America didn't understand the unstable foundations on which Russia and his sister currently stood. They were as reliable as the pavement their heels clicked against – give it time and the forces of nature would intervene. The strongest foundations cracked under earthquakes of the smallest magnitude. Ukraine cracked just as easily. The dams holding back her tears were weaker than ever. The borderlines between Russia and Ukraine were thicker than ever: the union was dissolving. Ever since the constitutional reform…
"Hey Russia. I've been wondering for a while now, but… do you speak English or American?"
The sound of hard rubber against concrete changed to hollowed metal. Russia urged America into the saffron yellow cart, but America rounded on his heel, placed his hands on either rim of the door-less gate. His eyebrows fixed high on his forehead and his Columbia blue eyes searched for a safer place on Russia's face to focus that wouldn't align the freckles in their eyes. The wind scraped Russia's scarf against the sleeves of America's bomber jacket and a few seconds of heated silence passed where Russia mulled over the idea of slamming his knee into America's stomach to get him out of the way.
"English," his knee-jerk answer got a satiable reaction, as America didn't stumble back but the look on his face looked akin to being shoved. "I learned it from England. That was years before his ships touched down on the east coast of your continent." America couldn't even open his mouth before he felt that damn gun seek out the inch-thin ambiguous line where the Kevlar vest met the ridge of his pants. "Get in the cart. I'm getting impatient. And I'd hate to waste a bullet on you, sweetheart; especially using a sniper rifle at point-blank range."
America took a few steps back onto the claustrophobic platform to compensate for Russia's approaching figure. His voice box made a noise like a hiccup when his back met the central column. His arms raised to complete the cross-shape of America's body, and he bent his elbows and hung his fingers on the branch-like limbs of the cart. A smile quirked and Russia knelt a little at the knees to reach back and swing shut the metal door. "Would it help if I started running? Would your bullet be useful then?"
"Then I probably wouldn't be the one to snipe you." Russia sidestepped America with much difficulty – brushed his leg over America's thigh in the process – and perched one of his knees against the bend of the seat. The lip of the seat dug hard into the front of his ankle as he settled, alighting the forestock of the Dragunov on the brim just before the magazine, and directed the rifle and the scope at the shattered exit of the pool room. His fingers brushed against the cart as he sought out the trigger and sighted down the scope. "Come on, Vanya, I know heights make you nervous, but it'll be worth your while!" He could still hear Ukraine's voice egging him into the cart. It was cute that she still thought he was afraid of heights, but that hadn't been since he was little. Years of fighting in planes had taught him to overcome vertigo.
The blonde country, still a little hurt at being brushed past so easily, reeled parallel to Russia and eased his arms around Russia's waist, out of sight under the vest. He settled awkwardly against Russia's back, cursing the clashing inch-thick vests that kept him from feeling the proper chill that radiated through Russia's clothes. "Radiation has probably come in here and filled this entire thing up. We shouldn't be worrying about what's out there. We should be getting out of this rusted thing."
"The Ukrainians have already fenced off heavily radiated areas... we're perfectly fine here." He felt America's arms tighten around his gut enough to get a reaction - his gun slipped a little but he barely managed not to pull the trigger. Russia's shoulders fell and he clicked the safety back on before depositing the rifle on the seat next to him. With a little bit of difficulty, he twisted around and sat next to the other nation. "The worst we would have to worry about is excruciating pain. We're not them, America."
America discarded his tired figure at Russia's side – the one not inhabited by that godforsaken gun – with an annoyed sigh. He hates being reminded of that fact, that the people he mingles with will die before he blinks again – that they are so fragile and can succumb to diseases America can't catch, get shot through the stomach by insane Russians and die before they hit they ground while America waits on said ground for his blood to soak into his hair, knowing he can find the strength to get up and carry on. It was why England and Russia were meant for a mission that the SAS couldn't muster. Radiation leaked into their "immortal" bodies but it only felt like needles, not like death.
"Yeah, but… it would still hurt," America muttered. "You don't need any more scars."
"—the helicopter will be coming shortly." Russia bypassed the statement, which America would've pursued if not for the bitter tonality. He couldn't pursue Russia's physical shifting away either.
Put off by the front Russia had placed between them, America starkly scooted closer, only slowing down so the initial contact of their legs happened at the right instant. With a newfound vigor he tilted close to Russia and wondered if he'd be willing to risk losing his precious "sniping position" for a chance to get away from the perimeter that Russia himself had enclosed them within. The heavy clothes America wore made the sensation of touch difficult to pinpoint, but Russia who wore heavy clothes year almost three hundred and sixty days a year could feel those calloused fingers playing with the folds of his khakis. Revenge, America thought as he sought out one of those very sensitive ears with ashy hair spilling over the shell and concealing it from view.
He breathed.
Russia's entire body seized in that moment. To compensate, he sank into his own body and tilted his head away from America - not to get away, but to flick away his hair so most of America's breath landed on the skin and wasn't carried off by that selfish breeze.
Seeing that protest was the last thing in Russia's mind, America leaned a fraction closer to the dissolving Soviet Union and tasted that dangerous dust clinging to the ends of Russia's hair like stalactites. His fingers skipped across Russia's stomach until fingernails caught the end of the Velcro latches, splitting the silence with the snapping symphony of undoing the goddamn vests that wouldn't even protect us from bullets, Russia, damn--!
The abandoned vests hung like laundry on a wire over the brim of the cart. Russia somehow ended up with his legs on the seat, his boots drawing little black streaks on the yellow, dust caking the clothes on his back, and trying not to risk getting it in his hair because he wanted to lie back and pull America on top of him. America stationed his body in the area between Russia's thighs, one foot braced on the rough patterned ground, and pushed his knee up against Russia's groin. His hand reached up to touch Russia's hair, knocking the vests off the rim in the process because he hated those heavy things, and settling in the spiral crown of his tresses to mingle there while their lips found a way to form shapes around the other's.
America coaxed Russia's mouth open after persistent nipping gave the nation no choice but to comply. The Muscovite whose tongue tasted of that cheap brand of vodka and the Bostonian who shoved his tongue down his throat because Russia was the only one looking; the Russian who tasted overpriced Seattle coffee full in his mouth and resisted the urge to bite down and draw blood because he could already taste it on America's bottom lip.
Russia's hands splayed over America's stomach. America refused removal of his precious jacket, one of the mutual agreements they had come to during the First World War. Russia's thumbs peered under the white shirt and pinned it like a stage curtain near his collarbone.
He was envious of America's skin. Even as he brushed his fingers over his healthy shade of skin and the little blonde hairs sprouting over his chest, he hated him. His skin was perfect. He was perfect. He wasn't here for the good of the mission, but because he wanted to keep his heroic reputation and investigate Russia. It was only natural for Russia to take advantage of it, seeing as it would only be fair to communally take advantage of each other. Even if he hated America and the skin covering bones that weren't protruding from under his averagely developed muscles, he savored his warmth. He liked the way America smelled of Kentucky grasslands, busy New York streets, Californian coal dust, and Louisiana spices. It was very unlike the stench of Romanov blood, Moscow ashes, and Leningrad gunpowder; very unlike a tattered Russia.
A tattered Russia who now lay partially spread-eagled against the rusted cart of circular debris. A perfect-skinned America suspended over him. His bare hands with downy blond hair on the knuckles and wrists pressed hard against the canary yellow metal on either side of Russia's head. He tried not to think of how cold the metal was, and Russia who felt colder in comparison, who did not emit radiation but still remained the more dangerous of the two.
America leaned forward another inch to execute another kiss in a full-mouthed delivery. Gravity brought his shirt down over his stomach again. His hands worked with it to hike up Russia's shirt. Muscles tensed and relaxed on a vicious cycle beneath America's touch. The reactions only worsened as he traversed south. And Russia who grew frustrated with the paths America's fingers took and the chain of events each finger had in tow inconspicuously slid his own hands down America's waist until he felt the leather holster protruding past his belt loop. America hasn't the time to properly register the sound of a unsnapping button before he felt Russia relieve him of his handgun. A quiet wet gasp slipped through a gap in their kiss, but it drowned out when Russia clicked off the safety and held it to the hollow part behind America's jaw.
"America," Russia hissed, a voice laced with the deepest layers of mistrust. The smile only made it more frightening, yet he was drawn like a magnet back to Russia's lips. "Why did you insist on taking England's place? Why are you really here in Ukraine with me?" his vowels formed perfect structures against America's lips, and he had no trouble bringing his drawled Ls out to shyly meet America's bottom lip.
"Fuck, Russia…" the American complained and tried not to think of how many little red rings would appear over his body from Russia's persistent guns. "I'm not here to spy on you." His last word rode out on a whimper because Russia bit his lip. Russia knew there was more to it than wanting to see him. "…honest." As if that made it any more assuring.
America risked a bullet for another more submissive kiss.
"This mission is dangerous, you brat. There will most likely be officials everywhere with the orders to kill on sight."
"I'll be fine, sheesh. Who would want to go to a creepy ghost town like this anyway?
They were supposed to be looking for partial nuclear devices.
"This mission is dangerous."
America moaned into Russia's mouth.
"…kill on sight."
There was a gun pressed against his temple.
"I think… I think you're lying about the danger… the only danger here is you."
"Then you're fortunate that this is the case." Fortunate doesn't mean a handgun to his temple or a rifle to his back, but America was right in saying that Russia was his only source of real danger. The officials with orders to kill on sight seemed to pay the two no mind, but it was Russia who held the gun, and thank god he didn't have such an order. Russia kneaded the fingers of his free hand into the base of America's skull. It was hard not to focus every ounce of his fiber on the gun even though Russia was giving him what he wanted.
Because right now… he wanted to curse in Russian.
He couldn't look at his palms because they were clenched with the passion of a claw in a prize machine onto the hair of Russia's head. The platinum-haired man muttered an order against America's lips that he only caught the last few words of. It was all he needed to start working at Russia's khakis. His shaking fingers slipped against the fabric and tumbled down the sensitive area between Russia's legs. He gave a broken sigh and curled his trigger finger in a premature threat.
America swallowed hard against the medal pressing into the hollow of his throat. He held Russia's gaze through the entire matter, but had to betray his decision when the breeze drifted over Russia's freshly exposed skin because the nation below him moaned low, doggedly, and America didn't want to admit for a second how long he'd been craving that gorgeous resonance.
Not even his first hearing of Across the Universe could compare to the chills he got, even aided by the wind; there was a storm coming soon. He could feel it and taste it in the air. The hairs on Russia's stomach stood on end and America was certain the ones on his arms were doing the same, but the heavy shirt he wore hindered America's examination. (The first time he heard Paul McCartney and John Lennon's voices on that sunny afternoon stuck with him every day since. England scoffed and sipped his tea with an erect pinky, but America'd seen him scream just as the crowd of girls around them did. Even if Strawberry Fields was America's favorite song because it reminded him of his California vineyards, he couldn't get Back in the USSR out of his head.)
'You don't know lucky you are, boy…'
The first drop of rain sounded like a gunshot. America's cautious eyes wandered up the maze of Russia's body to see if the FINISH ended at the sniper rifle or with a tensed trigger finger. His body ached from the cold, shirt still pinned to his chest by Russia's stray fingers not twisted around the handle of the gun. His barrette angled up just right to create an entry wound left of his throat and exit at the crown of his hair; Russia would be littered with skull fragments and warm blood, and America would just smile and bite Russia's lip so hard that he'd tear it off. Russia however did not have a tight grip on the trigger, and the rain was falling at an uncountable tempo in the arid parking lot. The metal creaked and sang haunted melodies like snare drums marching toward a battle with millions of expected casualties. If Russia shot him would anything happen to his people? If America bit off Russia's lip would structures collapse?
The circular roof over the cart kept them from feeling the rain. It collected at the lip of covering and dripped into Russia's hair, tantalizingly slow. They were dusty and dirty and the interior of the cart only represented the grime caking their clothes. They would have to be discarded. Russia silently wondered what kissing in the rain felt like without an umbrella while the water beads drip drippedinto his hair. He envisioned what America's blood would feel like trickling into his hair and how warm it might be. He was envious of the RPD that bore America's bloodstain from when the inelegant nation toppled into the grass and split his hand on a fragment of the nearby building, jealous of that fragment for drawing blood when it should be him who was doing it. America's lip bled from when he had split it yesterday and Russia's kisses kept it from healing. When their mouths came together again, slowly this time as it felt like the rain was watching them, Russia's finger flexed and loosened. His hand wandered over the perfect plane of America's stomach and he realized the inconvenience of the gun keeping him from slipping that hand under the hem of America's pants. The Russian reluctantly clicked the safety off, but did not remove it from its spot.
When the raindrop hit the Ferris wheel and littered America with its tattered remains, he shuddered. Russia stole him away and removed that taboo bomber jacket. The leather material slumped behind the wearer who would be glaring from behind those glasses if Russia didn't promptly flick them off, revolving them ninety degrees away. America blinked twice to adjust his nearsighted eyes on Russia's profile. He barely felt Russia remove his shirt because he might've torn the fabric down the middle. The blond snagged at the base of Russia's jacket and began working at the buttons. He didn't need his glasses to see that he wasn't wearing that beige stereotype. He was smart and didn't want to risk bullet holes in his favorite coat, unlike America who felt practically naked without his leather jacket on.
The younger nation finally freed Russia of his jacket and discarded it on the floor because it wasn't important enough to be on the same level as he and his bomber jacket were. The same cheap shirt material was lifted off of Russia's body to join the jacket, and America's hands explored the contours of his topographical chest. It was frightening how pale Russia really was. Even in comparison to his slightly reddened cheeks, it looked and felt like the body of a corpse. The zombie apocalypse films America had watched gave him the instinct to run or grab the Dragunov to blow his brains out, not fuck him senseless. Russia's skin, when not coated in a layer of dust, tasted of vanilla bean.
The gun shifted along with America's body. When America was trailing kisses down Russia's chest, Russia pointed the gun to the bend in his jaw; when America let his lips drag lazily down Russia's stomach, the gun pointed to his temple; when America slid the flat of his tongue down Russia's erection, the gun… clattered to the floor.
Russia's jaw fell open, the moan reluctantly drowning away in the sound of the rainstorm. Thunder clashed over the distant skies – it might've been the sound of a sniper rifle, but the hushed whispers of Russia's want echoed louder, and America was certain that if his want made a noise, it would be louder than the thundering distance. America's tongue ravenously worked at Russia's member. The Muscovite melted against the face of the cart until his head met the seat. His breathing was as shallow as his thrusts, both interrupted by the need to moan out his tension. His gun-free hands groped tirelessly like vines against the side of the cart seat, trying to find leverage to hoist himself up again. Russia's back bowed in surprise, his hands flexing in a frantic imagining of tugging violently at America's hair. The knot of strain developed in his abdomen. His eyes sought out the golden streaks his fingers had cleared of dust. Lines blurred together into something thick and white. The sky blended with the cart of the Ferris wheel and Russia could no longer concentrate on the water droplets misting over his cheeks. The butterfly knot tightened until it hurt… but the tension stayed. America pulled away and elevated back to suck on Russia's bottom lip instead; a taunting representation of what he wasn't willing to finish.
Russia finally satisfied his desire to draw blood. By the time America was in close proximity, his upper lip fell victim to Russia's canines. He only reluctantly let go when America's fingernails pierced a Mongolian scar deviating from the base of his skull. They pulled away altogether with lips smeared red. Only America licked it away, but Russia kept it brandished on his mouth, which only complemented that devilish sneer, which reminded America of a forced smile yanked back by a pair of fishhooks.
Blood trickled from the incision America's fingernail left on Russia's raised skin. Rain came in at a slant and plastered their skin with the same wet streaks Russia's fingers branded on the dusty seats.
The taller nation dragged his fingernails hard down America's chest and left the same pretty pattern on his no longer perfect skin. The walking corpse that was Russia had scars littering every square inch of his body. Rich purple and black bruises permanently charred his torso. America had a single scar just above his navel, but it wasn't hideous, like the only word that could describe Russia's skin. America's hands meshed over the uneven terrain like a boat skidding over the ocean. His hands were lone travelers, lost skimming over a sea that made the Antarctic Ocean seem tropical. He was careful, and even though a part of him wanted to blow the hole through Russia's stomach that the latter threatened earlier, he treated Russia with fragility. Russia reacted to the most abrupt changes with false smiles, but the slowest made his eyes smile.
When they kissed, Russia's hair clung to his forehead like a wet mop. Their limbs slid over each other with that thin plane of water coating their faces. America framed Russia's sensitive ears with his middle and ring fingers, curled them behind the shells, and pressed his palms against his cheekbones. He tasted his own blood lacing Russia's lips like lipstick. Russia's hands moved south to rid America's body of the final layer of fabric. A flicker of red, white, and blue caught his eye as he slid both trousers and boxers downwards. His powdered boots stopped the clothing just short of complete removal. America with his newly planted bind toed out of his boots and stripped himself of the articles of clothing. He tried not to think about the possibility that he had kicked his bomber jacket onto the floor.
"America—" but the addressed nation silenced him with a hard press of his finger. He felt like the cart wasn't attached to a controversially stable foundation, but balancing on a spider web-thin thread. Like any word not breathed under tension would break it and the two would plummet into nuclear darkness. America would never see his skies again. Russia would miss catching snowflakes on his tongue. The Russian nodded in a bemused understanding because he saw the paranoia in his eyes.
America's finger felt like a weight compressing Russia's back to the cart, but he defied it and lined their lips together in an effort to silence America with his own gesture. When it traced that line down Russia's chest that America seemed to memorize was their kiss uninterruptedly completed. America dropped his shoulders and let his hands collapse childishly between his parted legs.
They engaged in a movement that looked to be like a slow motion ballet. Their rain-coated limbs nimbly slid over each other like silk. America's fingers hooked as a unit over the side of the cart, his toes were parallel to the steep footrest, and he could feel his chest rubbing against a weird mixture of dust and acidic rainwater. Russia still wore those damn khakis half down his thighs and it brushed uncomfortably against America's sensitive skin. Russia forced in with caution and clemency being the last things on his mind.
The mixture of rain falling on his shoulders and soaking his hair along with the dried dust in the Ferris wheel made stability a challenge. America dropped his foot against the patterned floor tile for leverage. He braced his forehead between his knuckles and erupted into a choked sound. Russia beat into him with a tempo as sporadic as the increasing rain. America tasted blood from his split lip as he gnawed through it shut up shut up don't scream… the radiation levels in the rain made his skin blister, but the constricting hand around his own erection made his body quake with a satisfying tangle of unbearable pain and more so an agonizing rapacity for the pleasure foreign to his body in such a deliverance that only Russia could muster. Only Russia could get America to scream a Dragunov's shot into the darkness of Pripyat.
He wanted to curse in Russian.
His body seized in an exasperated climax. White swirled over his eyes, but it could've been grey like the rest of the city. Russia's cadence slowed the rain in comparison, penetrating deeper than the radiation piercing all five layers of his skin. Russia compressed them in a unyielding unit like two puzzle pieces not meant to fit even when hammered together until a piece of sky merged with a part of the grassy field. When the tautness in his stomach shattered, America could see nothing but snow and hear nothing but his own pleas. His knuckles were white with how tightly he gripped the metal and didn't uncoil even as Russia rode out his release. America shivered every time his chest was pressed into forced contact with the wintry metal. Russia was colder…
America felt Russia's forehead touch down on the inwards bend of his spine. The taller nation's tongue greedily sought out droplets pooling on the contours of America's shoulder blades. The hand previously tailoring America's wilting erection pressed firm against the barrel of the North American's chest; America tried to ignore those relentless fingernails. "…'te you."
America dared to raise his gaze and look off into the blurred distance. His drenched bangs fastened to his forehead and teased his eyelashes, but his nearsighted vision and clouded judgment had him drawing shapes in the building's shadow. Russia muttered unintelligibly against his skin, but he couldn't make heads or tails of the accent-ridden language. He could feel his words bubbling up to the surface like a volcano gearing up to explode just like Mount St. Helen's did only a decade ago—
—" Ya loobloo vashich ribi."
Russia's contact ceased immediately. America's tossed his gaze over his shoulder but the rest of his body shifted around slow as molasses. The Slav looked like he'd been stabbed in the neck. How could it be when I just told him that I hated him?
He swiftly recovered his clothes and piled them into his aching arms. Russia already had his pants hugging his waist, buckled, belted, buttoned – actions that poisoned America's mind with regretful looks underneath Russia's eyes. "R-Russia!" America snagged Russia's arm before that hand met the discarded rifle. Russia had that maddening frown that made America skeptical, like he would pick that rifle up and snipe his skull from point blank.
"And I'd hate to waste a bullet on you, sweetheart; especially using a sniper rifle for point-blank range."
"Why didn't you let England come, America? He is more capable than you and this mess wouldn't have happened!" America couldn't focus on his words because Russia standing in that cart looked ten feet taller than he really was. Unclothed, shivering America with water collecting on his eyelashes from the moisture and not from tears, dammit felt smaller than being one of five largest countries with the most landmass… compared to England who could fit in Alabama. "You wanted to spy on me! You wanted to see me crumble- to see me collapse—to see you win!" He drew a hand to his own face and shielded his eyes like the sun was blinding him. The rain fell harder outside their little world in that lonely cart.
"Russia…" America went for his bomber jacket first and felt a wave of security crash over him.
"…they're leaving me, America… my sister, she wants nothing to do with me… her men—they would shoot if they saw me. They would shoot if they saw you, but her own brother. The wall is crumbling… all I'm hearing in those streets is 'tear down this wall'… this radiation doesn't even hurt. I can feel myself rotting from the inside out already…"
"Russia, hey…! Gorgeous, listen." Russia pursed his lips and backed into the web of steel pipes keeping the base of the cart attached to the ceiling. America stood and his foot brushed against his pants, but he preferred the feel of Russia's damn khakis against his sensitive skin.
"I'm not here to watch you dissolve. Things've been getting better, you know? But… I don't ever see you anymore. You've been keeping yourself from me," He tucked Russia's damp dark-ash hair behind his ear and leaned up to press the bridge of his nose against the taller man's. "I don't give a damn about partial nuclear devices or whatever the hell we're here for… it's secluded… and you and I are alone… without the world breathing down our necks with all of this shit about the war finally coming to and end… they're all holding hands and singing songs about peace, but… I'm holding you… and that's all that matters, Russia…"
Russia speechlessly parted his lips, but his words were ripped from him by the incessant need to kiss. He brushed his teeth over America's lip, but didn't bite… just soothed his tongue over the other's split lip and listened to the rain.
"…th-… is… -ven two… fiv-… hello, c….me in… over…"
America felt Russia's lips and body leave him. The latter spilled his upper body over the side of cart to retrieve the water-damaged radio from his Kevlar vest. "This is Seven-Two-Five Uniform Sierra Sierra Romeo. We are in position and ready for pick-up, over."
The radio hissed before a voice managed to leek through. "Rodger that, seven two five… 'rm… com… light…ng… cannot… ou… now… "
"Repeat, Alpha six. Over." Russia hit the radio against the base of his palm to force water out of it.
"The area is currently under a… rict no fly zone… d…e to severe thunder storm… we will pick you up when the… clears. Over and out."
They sat in silence listening to the rain on opposite sides of the cart. By the time the sound of thunder blanketed the monochrome sky, Russia and America were sharing the same side again. Russia slung his rifle casually over his shoulder and glared up at the falling rain as he felt the radiation soak through his skin where the rain could not get him but not where America's under-the-skin presence lay. America's quirky smile tossed up at the sky to watch the flashes of light flicker across the windshields of the abandoned cars.
"Guess you're still stuck with me, eh, big guy?" America stretched his arms obnoxiously a few inches from Russia's nose and moved to position them folded behind his head. "We should do this more often."
Russia seized the American's wrist and pressed a hard kiss to the protruding veins before it reached its destination. "Fuck you America."
And America smiled.
Because Russia spoke American.
-:- - -:- - -:-
"Ya loobloo vashich ribi" // Я люблю ваших рыб – I love your fishes~
Pripyat, Ukraine, is a city near the site of the Chernobyl Nuclear Disaster in 1986 when reactor number four had a meltdown. The resulting fire sent a plume of radioactive fallout into the atmosphere and over an extensive geographical area, including Belarus, Russia, and the nearby town of Pripyat, which was promptly evacuated. The evacuation began at 2 p.m. on 27 April. To reduce baggage, the residents were told the evacuation would be temporary, lasting approximately three days. As a result, Pripyat still contains personal belongings. An exclusion zone of 30 km/19 mi remains in place today. Special permission must be granted to visit the still radioactive zone.
The amusement park, consisting of bumper carts and a ferris wheel, was supposed to open approximately a week before the disaster struck. Due to high levels of radiation, neither attraction has ever been used.
Back in the USSR, Strawberry Fields Forever, and Across the Universe are songs by the Beatles.
Thank you Ele and Emi for betaing~ I love you both mucho.