A/N: Summer is a glorious, glorious time, readers. But mostly, I just want to thank you so much for at least clicking on my story. I hope you enjoy-if not, I apologize!
Warnings: Swearing, overly-emotional America, and weird plot structures.
Summery: One-shot: He buried his face indignantly in the crook of Russia's neck, breathing in his scarf, scars, and let the tears go silently as Russia wrapped his arms once more around him and whispered incoherent Russian-isms into his hair. Russia/America slash. Please R&R!
Disclaimer: I, Trans-Siberian Railway, do not own Hetalia: Axis Powers, Russia/Ivan, America/Alfred, N. Italy/Feliciano, Lithuania/Toris, or anyone else. Please don't sue.
America wished he'd never started that fight.
Well, look at the better fucking person you are, Mr. Hero, America thought, throwing a crushed Pepsi can over the side of a walk bridge he was slumping against. The young nation sighed, listening to his country buzz about him in the mid-July night, ripe with cricket symphonies and fireflies, streetlamps on guard in the park behind him, and citizens streaming through fluid New York City darkness like it was daylight. He counted a dozen or so cyclists, teenagers racing across the walk bridge in the moonlight of forgotten curfews, and a stray cat that meowed against his dress shoes. America emptied a bag of jerky he bought at the cat's feet, and opted for cooing over its delighted purring as opposed to listening to couples—young and old—pass by him smiling, laughing, maybe in love.
And it was love—or some cheap, over-the-counter copy—that put him in this goddamn bullshit situation. And the more America recounted the events that led him to this walk bridge, in the middle of a park, in the middle of his New York City, bitter and upset, the more he realized how much of a major asshole he had been just a few minutes ago.
Because today was supposed to be special.
America had woken up especially excited for his long-awaited day to commence according to sweet, sweet, joyous, Americanized plan. Of course, he was also hosting an international meeting in New York City on the same day. But that was supposed to be routine: He would deliver a string of notes, give the floor to whomever was next in line, and spend his time awaiting anniversary plans—anniversary plans to celebrate his one-year relationship with Russia. Who made a point to claim the seat next to America at the meeting with "Property of the Russian Federation" carved into the leather seat. (America had bitched and moaned about that, but it was hard to stay mad, not when America cleaned his entire Washington Square home just for that night, not when America felt butterflies rebelling throughout his limbs…and especially not when Russia held his hand under the table, stroking gloved hands over America's. And especially not when Russia smiled—smiled; holy shit—at him.)
During lunch break, he had waved off an affectionate Russian to their hotel room, using hunger as evidence. He ran across the street to a deli, meeting up with a giddy Canada along the way. He remembered his brother had smiled nervously at him and said one of the countries—he refused to name him or her—had asked him out, but couldn't finish after America decided it was within his rights as a brother and friend to hug the daylights out of Matt. But could anyone blame him? America's plans remained untouched by delays. His presentation had gone over fairly well. He had a fantastic night awaiting him, and a hot Russian ass to go along with it. Why wouldn't America be happy for his brother? Gotta share the love, right? So, with a laugh and an arm slung over Canada's shoulders, America invited him along to the deli to eat together.
But the other nations must have collectively decided that particular deli was the hot spot for lunch-break romancing, because every seat available was taken by nations and their significant others—or whatever the hell was politically correct at that point. (America preferred the good ol' trusty "boyfriend"—especially when he got to introduce Russia at human gatherings as "Oh, two tickets please, one for me, and one for my boyfriend.") America smiled at the scene, remembering Russia with a flighty fondness.
He elbowed Canada. "Is your beau among the lovebirds, Mattie?" America had chuckled. And Canada responded with a blushing grin and punched him in the shoulder.
"Jeez, Matt! I was just asking!"
"Let's just get our food and head back. Moron." But Canada was smiling when he said it, and America, too effervescent under the photo-bright colors of an old-fashioned deli and happy couples, let it go with a laugh that might have been a bit too loud.
Or so it was supposed to proceed. Grab a sandwich, tip the pretty cashier. Unload a heap of innuendos on England and France—whom were speaking quietly in a booth in the corner of the deli—just to piss them off. Then America would finish eating, run as fast as he could back to his hotel room, to his Russia, to await the night.
But it didn't happen that way. Instead a slow, steady throbbing was building past the excitement in America's chest, a throb that both constricted and expanded. And he only noticed it after he heard Spain and Romano speaking, sitting in a booth closer to the check-out counter.
"You fucking lied to me, you bastard." Romano.
"No, no! Why would you think that, my Lovi? I've never lied to you!"
"You said—fuck, you know what? Forget it. I don't wanna say it. Point is you lied to me. And I'm pissed."
"Lovino…" Spain said, his voice lower and, to America's ears, drenched in something so… (deep that America felt like a voyeur). "Is this about our vacation?"
Romano didn't answer.
Spain whimpered. "Oh, mi querido…I'm sorry it turned out like this. Really, I am. But my boss said—"
"I know what your boss said, asshole," Romano grumbled. "But you could've just told me. I didn't want to hear it from my brother."
"I didn't want to upset you."
Romano scoffed, but it was strangely…light-hearted. "Yeah, whatever. Stop worrying about me all the damn time. I…I would have been okay with it. I guess."
"Really?" Spain cried. "Oh, Lovi, I'll make it up to you. I promise. Right after my meeting, I'll head right over to see you and we can do anything you want!"
"Shut up, Antonio." But there was no malice behind it.
And it was then that America noticed everything. He noticed how Germany moved in sync with Italy, timed to each other's smiles and sighs. He noticed how Spain and Romano, despite the gripes, the punches, the screams—they never strayed far, no matter how angry Romano was. He even, God help him, noticed how France and England…were France and England. Together they were two people so confident in themselves that they were confident in each other, regardless of the fights, because the fights happened for a reason. And they loved each other all the more at the end of it all.
Then America tried to look back, to smile and appreciate it for what it was—happy nations and happy couples—and found that he couldn't fit himself and Russia in their worlds.
At first, America didn't understand why he was over-thinking this, why seeing those couples, so happy, so together, so established as one, made him so upset. Why he had the most horrible, horrible idea that he and Russia were just moving together against the grain of history. Why he felt something inside him—he refused to name it—clench tightly at his caustic thoughts.
Why he was in such a state of pain-inducing panic that might have been the equivalent of a human heart-attack.
He mumbled an unintelligible good-bye to Matthew and stormed out of the deli, back to the hotel. The front desk had a note for him from Russia; there was an emergency he had to attend to with his sisters. Would only take a few hours. Russia would see him soon at America's home with open arms. He wished it could have made him happy.
But now America was afraid.
They were supposed to go to a restaurant that night, a five-star one at that, the kind that had the strictest of dress codes and served food that put France to shame. Russia had insisted he didn't need anything fancy. A night alone in America's beautiful home in Washington Square Park with a bottle of vodka or two, talking and kissing and touching, was enough to make Russia happy. But America was adamant. Russia would definitely get his kissing and touching by the end of the night, but America wanted to show him that he could be romantic. He was a New Yorker at heart, just like every one of his cities; he wanted to show Russia that he could be an adult, that he could be classy. That he could be passionate.
But when America started getting ready for that fabulous dinner he had planned months in advance—he'd brought his suit to the hotel and everything—his passion had reduced to fear and doubt. The scene at the deli left him confused and, though he wouldn't admit it, even inside his own head, scared. So he got all dolled up in his designer suit, gelled his hair up until it was manageable, and replaced Texas with contacts. He remembered Russia telling him once how beautiful his eyes were, light and blue and free like the sea—
America pushed the thought away and sighed. Staring at himself once more in the mirror, he checked out headed for Washington Square Park. Where Russia was waiting. America soaked in his thoughts the entire taxi ride, thinking of couples and histories and why he felt distrustful. And when the Arch came into sight, glowing pale and white in the night, America felt too young in the heart.
Russia stood outside his door, dressed, for once, in a suit not made specifically to blend into the walls of world meetings and observe without notice. He looked taller than usual. He looked sharp; his suit fit well. It filled out his chest beneath his scarf, even gave his thighs a slight, charming curve. Russia looked handsome—again, more than usual. When America stepped out of the taxi, Russia straightened up.
America swallowed.
"Good evening, Alfred," Russia said, holding out his arm with a playful smirk. "Are you ready?"
No. "Um, yeah," America said. "Just…let me get my bomber jacket."
Russia tipped his head quizzically, watching America fiddle with his keys. "Are you sure you want to bring it? It would not match with your suit…By the way," Russia added, his large hands travelling down America's tensed back, leaning close until his nose was pressed into America's hair. Russia smiled. "You look beautiful."
America shivered. Twisting a bit under Russia's touch, he finally unlocked the door and hurried inside. "Watch the hair. I…worked hard on it."
Eyes narrowed—mostly to hide how dumbstruck and foolish he felt, being left in the doorway—Russia stepped inside, shadowing America as he rifled through the front hall closet.
"Alfred. Your coat is upstairs."
America turned around. "What?"
Russia reached out to tuck a stray wisp of blond hair behind America's ear. "I said, your bomber jacket is upstairs. You left it hanging on the back of the chair by your desk this morning."
America ran past Russia's hands and his concerned stare. "Could've told me that when I walked through the door," he muttered.
America felt Russia's eyes on him all the way upstairs; they made him feel heavy, leaden to each step. Once he found his jacket, hanging exactly where Russia said it would be, America took a moment to sigh and rubbed furiously at his face, trying to work up his good mood of only a few hours ago. It didn't work.
And he felt even worse when he started downstairs. Russia's stare stopped him at the landing, holding him at a heartbeat's interval; Russia looked dejected, like a child who had been promised something special, only to find that some cruel, gnarled palm crushed it before his eyes. America bit his lip.
"Hey, Ivan," he said, trying to sound casual. America made a last second detour into the kitchen for some water bottles, because "even water sells for, like, twenty dollars at this place." Russia followed him.
"What is your problem?" Russia demanded. "I thought you were excited for tonight."
America ignored the barely-there glint of something in Russia's eyes—the barley-there glint of hurt.
"I am…"
"No, you do not seem to be," Russia said, his voice steady and starting to freeze over.
"I am…I was…It's just…Okay, earlier, when I was at the deli during the meeting…I don't know." America pulled at his hair. "I saw everyone there. Italy and Germany. Iggy and France, you know? And I just…I just thought…fuck, this is annoying."
"I agree. You thinking is quite an annoying idea."
Something about Russia's tone—whatever it might have been, whether it even existed—sparked a bruise in America's belly. America swiveled around and glared at him, the well of his fears spilling over into anger. "See? That's exactly what's wrong with me!"
Russia stared, confused. "What are you talking about?"
"All you fucking do is make fun of me. All the time. That's what you all do! Why, huh? You think I'm stupid just like everyone else thinks about me? Fine, because if it's true, then I was right all along."
Now Russia stood calmly, lacking any visible tension. But his eyes were burning, a horrible, poisonous combination of animosity, betrayal, hurt, antagonism. All towards America, who stood shaking, eyes burning with something else, one hand clenched on the counter and ready to smash it to pieces.
Russia took a slow step forward until he was staring down at America through his scarf, violet-eyed and violent without violence. "And what might be true, America?"
America stood on his toes and shoved his face into Russia's. There chests were pressed flush against each other, but gone was the passion, the tenderness of touch that should have awaited them that night. Instead, two eclectic hearts pounded a disastrous discord: America's racing with emotion; Russia's tolling a battle drum.
"That you don't give a shit about me at all, Russia," America snarled. "I'm just a fucking lay for you because no one in your little dissolved commie boardinghouse wants anything to do with you now that you're just Russia and not fucking people over anymore. Can't rape Lithuania 'til he's unconscious anymore, huh? That's the only reason you've been with me for so long, right? Well, good job fooling the dumbass American; I give you props. And I thought it was fucking real—"
Then Russia punched him. Hard.
America grabbed the oncoming counter with one hand, cracking a tile under his fingers, cradled his cheek in the other. His breathing quickened along with the breaking panic that filled him to the brim of his wits when he slowly turned back, eyes wide, his glasses slipping out of his shirt pocket.
It was what he called an "under-the-bridge" moment, as when one drives down a stormy road, lulled by the endless patter of rain on the hull of a car, until an overpass bridge, for just a moment, puts you in complete silence. No sound. No rain. Just a stray moment in your mind—and then it's over and back to the rain like it never stopped falling.
Russia glared passive murder. His fist clenched and unclenched. His violet, raining eyes shined.
America didn't want to know what made those beautiful, mournful eyes shine. He didn't want to be disappointed if what he was looking for wasn't there.
So he kept his head down and ran out of his house, out of the Square, to another park. And he had to gnash his teeth together lest some phantom, broken-hearted scream tore through his throat, when he glanced over his shoulder to find no Russia calling after him.
Thus was the reason had him wallowing for the past twenty minutes. He wanted to ignore the irony of it all: America, shining so brightly that morning for a night he had planned for months, was now in his too-nice suit for a lonely person, staring over the edge of the bridge in some park in the middle of New York City. He watched his Pepsi can teeter down the rocks. He rubbed at the bruise forming on his cheek and winced.
And so America remained in his misery, whimpering something in a place that sauntered no sunshine, Russia's eyes burning into his flaring thoughts that sired silent tantrums.
"Damn it, " he groaned, running his fingers through his now not-so-meticulously-styled blond hair. "Why the Hell do I do this to myself?"
"Why do you do what to yourself, America?"
America jumped and turned his head, a quick I'm-fine-and-dandy smile beginning to crack across his face. And while he had prepared himself to see one of his citizens, he was surprised to see Italy standing beside him, head tilted up and eyes wide.
"Uh…hey, Italy," America stammered, his brain trying to work in two different directions. "I was…Well, I mean…Um, what're you doing here? Shouldn't you be on a plane back to Europe or something?"
Italy's eyes brightened. He hopped a little by America's side. "Nope! Ludwig is taking me out tonight for a date in the city. See?" Italy, all smiles and bouncing curl, performed what America decided was probably the most unmanly action on the face of the earth: He twirled. A full-bodied, arms-out, 360-degree helicopter twirl. But it gave America quite the view of Italy's new suit, pressed and so obviously Italian-made and fit for a damn wedding, that America decided he'd rather throw himself head first over that shallow walk bridge than have to listen to Feliciano gush about his date with Ludwig. In his own goddamn city.
Irony never fell far from the tree in America's world, skewed metaphors be damned.
"Nice suit," America said, rolling his eyes to stare at the stars.
"Grazie!" Italy chirped. "I helped out the designer myself. Oh, and thank you so much for having the meeting in New York this year, America. Fratello kicked Ludwig and I out of the Mediterranean for the weekend and Ludwig couldn't think of anything for us to do on our time off. Everyone in Europe is either renting out their countries for a few days or going to places I've been banned from—oh, u-um, I mean…Don't tell Ludwig or my fratello I said that, sì? Francis said I shouldn't—but thank you so, so much for letting us stay in New York! It's wonderful! And we don't have to worry about bothering other couples except for you and Russia, since everyone else is having a good time in Europe or Asia, but Ludwig was extra, extra careful to make sure we didn't bother you and Russia tonight and—Beautiful suit! It fits so nicely. Russia must love it. Oh, and by the way, where's Russia?"
Italy looked behind and around a now slumping American. "Aren't you supposed to be with Ivan right now, Alfred?" Italy asked.
America turned away.
"Yeah. Fuck him." America tossed his head. "S'nothing special, anyway."
Italy frowned, his chin crinkling a little in misplaced, distressed confusion.
His eyes were so wide, America noticed with disdain.
"Alfred? Did something happen?"
America leaned his arms against the walk bridge and shook his hair out like a wet puppy-dog. It flopped and tangled in the slight breeze, but it covered his face. "Yeah."
He could feel Italy fidget at his side: a faint, sienna-shaped cloud in his distorted peripheral vision. America rubbed at his eyes, dislodging his contacts, noting with a pinprick of anger that he really, really didn't like them anymore, and flicked them over the walk bridge. And just like that, he felt drained. Physically, emotionally, all those inner-feelings-crap drained. Gone with the contacts, gone with the tense piano wire that had him drawn up like a shell-shocked puppet since his breakdown at the deli. In its wake, he slipped his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. Through Texas's lenses America yearned, more than anything else, to sleep away the world, drenched in the soporific humidity of his New Orleans' antebellum home or breathing in the crisp, wind-whipped mountain air of his Wyoming ranch. Maybe chase a tornado or two in Kansas.
That's what America's body wanted as he watched the nacreous points of light that were his contacts join the flood down the stream. But America was used to the world screwing him over when he just wanted another period of isolation to sweat everything out, so he could only manage a lolling, irritated roll of the head when Italy suddenly grabbed his arm and dragged-skipped him through the park and across the city roads abuzz with taxi honks and late-night New Yorkers. And Italy was pretty damned and determined about it, what with a semblance of strength perfected.
"Uh…Italy? Where are we going?"
But Italy just kept dragging and skipping, looking over his shoulder at America to laugh as they continued on. America sighed and let him.
They ended up at a small restaurant, the kind wedged between a coffee shop and an antique store with a chalkboard stand outside promising fruit smoothies with French names and Turkish lamps. America wasn't sure why Italy chose this particular place, but he hadn't the energy to inquire. He was tired, he was hungry, he was almost positive his anniversary restaurant gave away their reservation an hour ago, and he wasn't in the emotional state to face an empty house in noisy Washington Square. As far as he was concerned, indulging Italy's spur of the moment actions wasn't that big of a deal.
Mmm…roasted potatoes and peppers. America would pay the bill tonight.
So they settled in a quaint corner-window seat Italy charmed from the starry-eyed waitress, a fake, flickering candle and a dessert menu separating them. Italy's burst of passionate determination faded quickly, and he bombarded America with coos and ve's about all the different pasta available, these look yummy, oh, I wonder if Ludwig would like this, have you ever been here before, America? I…uh, nah, not really. Oh, then…we get to try something new together! We—oh, buona sera, Miss!
And it was off to flirting with the waitress again. America grumbled his order and rested his head on his hand, staring out the window and down the brightly-lit streets. Entranced by the verdant shadows of the park trees swaying in the slight, humid chill, America tried not to remember how Russia had once cast his own silky, snowy umbra against the pale green walls of America's room, America's legs wrapped around his strong, thick hips in subdued play, blushing and grinning when Russia stared into America's glazed eyes and smiled hot little kisses against his jaw—
Oh, no you don't. America stabbed and ripped away at his potatoes, coughing as they burned against his tongue. Fuck him fuck him fuck him…fuck.
It wasn't going as well as he thought, and it pissed America off even more when Italy noticed. And then he almost blanched as dry as his potatoes when Italy spoke without warning, without half-moon smiles, without the strictly Italian bounce to his voice:
"You know, America," Italy began, twirling his pasta around his fork until his entire plate was a unitary mass of revolving volcano-spaghetti, "I think what you and Russia have is very special."
America's heartbeat jumped a little. He stared at Italy, whom was looking innocent and unassuming as always. "Uh…what?"
"You and Russia," Italy repeated. "I think you guys are special with each other."
America rolled his eyes. "Yeah, right. Not like you and Germany. Ya'll can't get enough of each other. Like teenagers."
"Ve…but Germany and Italy aren't Russia and America, right?" Italy looked up and smiled. "Germany and I…well, you know our history. We've had to go through a lot with each other. Supporting each other—well, Germany did most of that. But everything we went through, we went through with each other first. You and Russia—"
"Tried to fucking kill each other half a million times," America growled, slurping his soda down with acerbic zeal.
Italy laughed. "Yeah, you two were very funny. But think about it. Everyone called you hot-headed. Everyone called Russia cold-blooded. Ludwig said if you mix hot and cold, you get something warm and nice, like pasta. And I think it makes sense. You two aren't…whenever you two are together…" Italy tapped his chin. "It's not like looking at Antonio and my fratello. But it's not like looking at Arthur and Francis, either. You and Russia are…sort of in-between."
If that was Italy's way of trying to make him feel better, then America sincerely hoped that Germany was getting some on-the-side therapy to cope with whatever he had to deal with back home. (America briefly considered sending him one of those squeeze-stress dolls as a sympathy gift, on the honorable behalf of the United States of America. Here, have some Disneyworld tickets while you're at it. Take your brother.)
"I don't wanna talk about this right now," America mumbled. Head down, he made a sophomoric show of adolescent disobedience, pushing down on his kaleidoscope array of roasted bell peppers, the rounded edge of his fork on their shiny skins. With his hackneyed collection of pepper-flags, as well as a hackneyed attitude, Italy continued.
"But isn't this upsetting you?" Italy asked. He titled his head innocently, and America resented him for it. "It is your anniversary…I wouldn't want Ludwig to be angry with me."
"It's not the same," America snapped. Some patrons were throwing weird looks their way, and America had to glare at them with some good old-fashioned New York bite.
But Italy seemed unperturbed. "Why is it not the same?"
"Because you and Germany have gone through hell and back with each other. Ivan and I just made hell for each other and forgot about it. We've had no…ugh, what the fuck? We've had no tests, whatever the hell you wanna call special."
Italy frowned. "That's not true, America. The way you two are—"
"You don't know anything."
Immediate tension, so thick that America could feel it seizing up in his chest, emanated in disturbing waves from his unexpected dinner partner. America glanced up. Italy had set down his fork, pasta forgotten. He stared at America coolly, carefully, assessing him, resting his chin on folded hands.
America actually swallowed. What the hell.
"So, you're willing to tell me, North Italy, who is God knows how much older than you, who has been in several, hard, trying, beautiful relationships in my life, who has gone through more wars as a child than you may ever see in your entire life, and then claim that I know nothing?" Italy smiled. "You're quite confident for an amateur lover, Mr. America. And saying all that to an Italian, nonetheless."
Alfred gaped.
Italy looked down, worked the muscles in his face around until his smile had lost its haughtiness, his eyes their scorn. When he looked back up, Italy was grinning at a shaking America in sympathy.
"There must be something," Italy murmured. "Some moment you've blocked away. Something painful, probably, that neither you nor Russia wish to bring up again."
America shook his head.
Italy rolled his eyes. "Alfred. You know better than to lie to me about love. I've been through these 'tests.'" Italy reached over to take America's clammy hand, smiling gently. "Whatever happened with you and Russia that brought you together is worth the thought. No matter how disturbing or…or painful it was."
America couldn't stop shaking. He heard Italy through intermittent bounds and beats, a distinct Italian roll between heart-clock chimes. He didn't understand. In any other situation, from any other person, America would have laughed, abandoned this nonsense, and grabbed a Big Mac before heading home with giggles.
But for a brief moment America hated Italy with all his gyrating heart. He wanted to punch his understanding smile away, throw his pasta to the floor for good measure. Maybe make Italy cry so he could feel just as miserable as America did. Nothing was supposed to make him panic, ever. Not since what happened at the deli, at Washington Square with Ivan. No one was supposed to mention anything. Italy of all people should have known that. Not even Germany brought up the Holy—No one should have done it.
Especially not with America and Russia. It just wasn't—
And America choked, because Alfred had remembered.
Russia's house was cold and dark. America had expected so, but seeing such despair for himself didn't help his pre-ordained defenses. He should have come sooner, he thought. Or he shouldn't have come at all. Seeing Russia now, hunched over in the corner of his room, eyes bloodshot and wild, muttering something that made America's blood rush to his head…He should leave, he should leave…but no, a country shift could be grueling, it hurt, even years after the initial change, and Russia asked for him, needed him. Why, America didn't care to scope for an answer. He was willing to help, almost excited. He and Russia had been…talking, so to speak. Russia had started smiling at him. He had started laughing with him, and America had been unable to resist.
It shouldn't have gotten this bad. But the Russia reaching out for him, his hands and wrists bloody and cut open, was not the man America had soothed over the phone just a few hours ago. The Russia with no scarf, his neck nothing more than a column of red, a bloody tombstone of flesh that throbbed with each labored breath—this was not his Russia.
"Alfred…" Russia said, low and deep, and it coated America's skin like gloss and oil. "Hmm…Alfred…if you found me one day…boiling in blood and fire…"
America froze when Russia raised his hand and ran it gently down his cheek, smiling acid and sickness. America's stomach rolled at the sight.
Russia rose and pressed his lips against America's temple, breathing, chuckling. Dying in the mind. "Oh, my beautiful, strong little America…my little Alfred…would you save me from the blood and fire?"
That had been two years ago. For a nation, yesterday. For Alfred, it was a point in history he had tried so hard to keep down, to push back into the vault along with the aftermath of the Revolution and when he watched Lincoln die. That night with Russia had ripped him apart. The things he had to do to keep Russia alive for who knew how long…The things Russia had said to him…
Russia had made him promise to forget everything about that night, to never bring it up again. America told him he didn't need to feel ashamed. But Russia had panicked, and America gave in. How could he say no, when the person he loved more than anything else in the world had been willing to kill himself before his own wide, astonished eyes, sinking into a corner in an empty house in wintry Russia? The answer was obvious, because there America was, thrown back into the present by a chattering Italy, completely unaware that he had taken America's heart into his hands and ripped it open, bleeding realization and self-hate all over their good food, America's good suit. His good, Ivan-filled life.
Something horribly acidic was coating his blood, and when he heard Italy speak once more, it was like listening half-heartedly into a waterlogged conch shell.
"England said something funny about you. He said it's rare to see you use your head. But when you do, you over-think stuff and get sad. I think he was right."
"Really. When was this?" An echoed, mirror-view of his own voice. America didn't recognize it. He wondered who else had joined their feast of fools.
"Ludwig and I were on a double date with him and Francis."
America groaned.
"But don't you see, America?" Italy continued. "What you're worried about it nothing. Ludwig and I, fratello and Antonio, Francis and Arthur…we are all tested. For myself it was war. For my brother, it's pride. For Francis and Arthur, it's the past. For you and Russia—"
"He tried to kill himself once." America shook, his soda glass sweating beneath his fingers. "Russia. Because of me, I think."
Italy stared for a moment, eyes wide in shock, glimmering with newfound tears. He whimpered in sympathy.
But before Italy could cry or pity him—and before America was even aware that he was remembering long after the memory left its stain—he started panicking, rattling off into overdrive, almost-confused, almost-delusional recollections: The struggles in the middle of the night. The too-motherly mornings when Alfred had to soak Ivan's slashes with painful antiseptic, to keep himself from wincing when Ivan's body erupted in shudders. Draping fresh, snow-white bandages over the evidence of Ivan's monomaniacal love. Ivan told him one of those mornings that he was having nightmares, and Alfred was always his leading love. Bloody Alfreds, crying Alfreds, sinking Alfreds. And when a dead, cold dream-Alfred had splayed across dream-Ivan's lap…
Well, Ivan had mumbled against the beating pulse on Alfred's neck, you know the rest, my sunflower.
Indeed. He remembered the rest, and America felt like the God of Assholes when he realized just how critical that memory was. Nestled inside that blond head of his was the root of his life as Alfred, the root of Alfred's supreme and singular happiness as a young, carefree, all-American boy, and that was with the conscious hope that Russia—no. And that was with the conscious hope that Ivan was always there. Ivan's honesty, his brute passion, his serendipity of personality in accordance with Alfred's mental design of the world. Alfred couldn't survive without him, and—
Fuck.
Italy saw it. The hazy film over the eyes, the languid lure in a man-in-love's shoulders. The agony in the twist of the mouth. Such a temperament was common in young men. Italy knew; he had gone through it several times. He also knew how destructive it could be on the mind, given time and single-minded depreciation.
He reached over and patted America's clenched hands, the owner of which was having a staring match inward.
"You remembered?"
America nodded slowly, and Italy clapped in response. "See? We all have our tests, America. You and Russia are—not the same as the rest of us, but you guys had to deal with the aftermath of each other. Just like Germany and me, and everyone else. But you should also know—" paid the bill, grinning at the waitress— "that this is more than remembering the hard stuff. You and Russia were different for a while. You two simply ignored the bad stuff. I don't know how you two managed for so long. I mean, I cry every day about bad stuff! Oh, but Germany never minds."
America knew why—or how he and Russia managed to move through the past few years with relative ease, sidestepping backdoor brain cells and shadows sleeping in corners. It was the only memory he hadn't suppressed by choice. He just forgot. But…he remembered—
—Russia holding him one night, maybe only a few nights ago, drenched and brimming with stoic sympathy as America cried against him, wracked with the pain of a world that refused to leave him alone. There was no pity in Ivan's eyes.
More like nostalgia. Heart-wrenching, heart-breaking nostalgia.
Instead of coos and half-hearted pets, Ivan ran his huge hands through Alfred's hair and whispered against his lips images of bruises, tornadoes, and fields of June sunflowers, until Alfred's red-glazed eyes shone their sea-bottom dreams under the lull of Ivan's melodic incantations.
Alfred remembered thinking, just before Ivan's hands and the steady thrum of his full-body heartbeat rocked Alfred to sleep, that he never knew love felt like a tempered doze, wracked with spiced nightmares and glorious exhalations.
And America did something he'd never done before in front of anyone but England, and that had only been when he was a little colony, a little kid, just wanting his Papa back.
He buried his face in his hands and cried.
Anyone else would have just patted his back, if there had been anyone else. But sometime along the string of shattered memories they ended up outside, across the street. On a bench under a streetlamp, where the shadows of America's memories puffed up their chests. Italy, however, whined and threw his arms over America's shoulders and squeezed him tightly, nuzzling America's shaking, muscular arms.
"Oh, please, Mr. America, please don't cry! Ve…I didn't mean to make you sad! Really, I didn't! I just wanted to help you and Mr. Russia. Really! Please don't be angry or hurt me, 'cause then Ludwig might get angry at me for making you angry and I don't want Ludwig to be angry! He was going to take me to Broadway tonight, and he might not if he knew I made you angry at me!"
America sniffed into his palms, dislodging his glasses and running his hands through his hair, looking not unlike some poor, middle-aged man in a nine-to-five cubicle job, keening over lost dreams. Maybe it wasn't so bad a comparison. He sure felt old. Well, he also felt like a fucking moron, and a dick, and an asshole, and a heartbroken loser…but that was beside the point. Sort of. Italy was still crying on his shoulder, and he didn't have many options left.
Taking a deep breath, America reached over and patted Italy's head like one would a dog, hair ruffled and all. "You didn't do anything," he said, rubbing at his eyes. Italy peered up at him.
America managed a watery smile, his bruised cheek standing out quite beautifully in color beneath the gloss of tears. "I just fucked up. That's all. Russia's probably on his way back to Moscow by now." His body shook, and Italy frowned. "I fucked up."
Italy shook his head back and forth, frantically, tugging on America's arm. "No, America. He wouldn't leave. Not after what you told me. He wouldn't leave you."
"Yeah, and to prove his all-encompassing love, he gave me quite the shiner as a marketable accessory. Pretty, huh?"
"Don't talk like that, America. You know it isn't true."
America turned to him and glared. "I don't know anything—"
Ringringringring—
America almost jumped when he heard his cell phone blaring from his jacket—he thought he'd forgotten it at home—and scrambled to find the right pocket, teeth clenched, hoping that when he finally found his phone amidst the abyss of bubblegum wrappers and receipts, that when he finally flipped it open, eyes wide and searching, it would be—Oh.
Well, it wouldn't be Lithuania. But, in his amazed and acerbic confusion, that's who he got.
America brought the phone to his ear with slumped shoulders. "Toris? What's up—?"
"I apologize beforehand if I sound testy or rude, Mr. America, but quite frankly I don't care enough at this moment for formalities."
America blanched; Italy tipped his head out of the corner of his eye. "Uh—?"
"Has it ever occurred to either you or Mr. Russia that, quite possibly, I'm a tired and busy man with a nation of my own to take care of without having to chase you two around like a bunch of spoiled brats at odd hours of the day? And across the Atlantic? I'm not his maid anymore, Mr. America. Or have you forgotten that?"
Never in his life, even when Toris had been working for him a while ago, or during the Depression, or even when his country was smothering under the Soviet bloc, did America hear Toris once raise his voice in any kind of negativity to either America or Russia. America hadn't been nearly as demanding as Russia, and for the first few months of Toris's employment America was starting to worry that maybe Russia had beaten and whipped stubborn and disrespect completely out of Toris's personality spectrum. It didn't anger America to hear it now. But his day had been full of heart-wrenching surprises, and Toris's almost random, erratic manner was just throwing America's nerves completely on edge.
"W-What are you talking about, Toris?"
America heard a groan through the phone. "You know exactly what I'm talking about, Mr. America. Mr. Russia is no longer any liability of mine…he can't keep disturbing my work and think I'll just reschedule his flights back to Moscow whenever he so desires and not expect me to have any qualms about it."
"He what?"
A faint, tired chuckle. "Calm down, Mr. America. I told him I wouldn't. But you might want to find him soon. He seems to think I was bluffing, and he won't be happy when he has to sleep in an airport for a flight that's not coming for another week."
America liked these moments best in movies. Just after the climax of it all, when the leading man is so down on his days that the end looks far from fairytale-esque, his only consolation in the world a solid, steely grain of truth that he could get by somehow. Ah, but then it was characters that resembled Toris that America secretly loved above all, sans the heroes. They gave the heroes hope. Or a shred of it, at least.
And, of course, America wondered if it even mattered anymore—
Then Italy swiped his phone away with a giggle, told Lithuania to have a splendid night, and snapped it shut. America stared, open-mouthed.
…The fuck?
Italy held his phone out for him with a smiling pout. "Sorry about that. But you had this funny look on your face, and every time I see it at meetings, we don't hear from you for weeks because you get sad." Then, much to America's surprise—though it really shouldn't have surprised him anymore—Italy through his arms around his neck again. "You shouldn't be sad anymore! You just have to run on home and give Russia a great big hug and a kiss, and everything will get better! You'll see!"
Italy let go long enough for the both of them to stand, the night air calming around them, chilling the situation, purging America's head from any more doubts that lingered long after Lithuania called. Long enough for America to realize with a small, tiredly thankful grin inward, a hand raking through his sticky-gelled hair, that Toris and Feliciano were right. The thought left a bitter taste in the back of his mind, and he felt a headache coming on, but such was life. He would have to get over it. He screwed up big time…but then again, so did Russia. They both screwed up.
America could fix it. He always managed to.
"But really, America," Italy said, breaking him out of Alfred Land, "I would go back to Russia. If what I've seen is enough to go by, then he must be sorry. And he probably misses you lots."
America sniffed away the last of his tears and did his best to put on his brightest, most grateful smile. "Thanks a bunch, Feliciano. Really."
Italy grinned, bouncing a little on his heels. "No problem at all, Alfred! Always happy to help with affairs of the heart. I—oh my God!" He gasped down at his watch. "I'm sorry Alfred, but I'm late…Oh, and one more thing."
America got that strange feeling again, the kind that nations only experience when another nation—like Italy—was in his comfort zone. That wave of maturity. The experience that resonated in Italy's eyes, like he was speaking of a dear, beloved friend.
Italy smiled at him. "Take my advice, Alfred. Ivan loves you more than the world and heavens combined. Ciao!" And he rushed out of the park, leaving America stunned under the moonlight.
And you didn't dare challenge the advice of an Italian when it came to love.
When America left the park, running like a bat out of Angst-Hell, he had felt nothing short of apologetic adoration, a dramatic need to get as close to Russia as possible and let him punch him in the face again. For those first few minutes of madness, running through the streets of New York, emblazoned through the ride by helicopter whirs overhead and trails of street lamps, America felt some sort of resolve.
Ah, if only that would last.
A few streets away from Washington Square Park and America's confidence dissolved as quickly as the walk signals. The closer he got to home, the closer he realized that maybe, just maybe, Russia would not forgive him. That maybe Russia, the same man who claimed to love America more than the stars above, would never be able to get past being called a scoundrel, a liar, and a rapist. That maybe Russia realized, years after all the Cold War paranoia, that another angry American around just when he thought he found happiness was counterproductive. America wouldn't blame him; he would have done the same thing. But he hoped anyway.
Leaden with unease, America almost wished that Russia had left. If he was already at the airport, there wasn't much America could do about it. The gap would be too thick to cross. He'd let Russia fume for a few days, sleep off the failed anniversary stupor. Call him up then. Hope for the best…again.
But when America finally made it to his house, mentally beaten and traversing dangerous mind-waters, and opened the door…well, he was relieved. For a moment.
Then he panicked.
Russia was standing in the living room, hunched over a suitcase overflowing with jackets much too big and bulky for July's scorching moods. America had teased him relentlessly, going so far as to strip a flushed Russia down in the kitchen a few nights ago—but America wasn't laughing much now. His heart was hurt and hammering away, upping another few aches every second his gaze lingered on Russia's thick, ash-blond hair, his squinting violet eyes as they raked over his burden, his muscles turning over each other beneath his sweater—America realized his suit was gone. That hurt a bit.
When Russia stood straight, his suitcase mastered and his hair in what would have been dubbed "pleasant disarray" had America not been tenser than a murderer on trial, he stared at America like he'd known he was there the entire time. America wasn't fooled. The slight tensing, the minute widening of the eyes, little things only America could see…
It didn't matter either way. Russia's glare intensified; he cleared his throat like America was an offhand inconvenience. "Good night," he said, and only then was America relieved to hear the faint, wind-chime trill of hesitation, of sorrow. He started walking forward, either confident or feigning confidence that America blocking the doorway was just theatrics. "I will not be bothering you any longer. It seems I have more than enough control of Lithuania to get what I want, anyway—"
And America violently shut the door behind him and pressed himself against it, blocking any chance Russia had of leaving his house peacefully—or violently. But despite his burst of confidence, like most of America's demeanor, physical bursts only accomplished so much. He couldn't look Russia in the eyes. How could he, if he was right?
Russia paused, and America shut his eyes and wished that meant he would stay, talk things over. Then Russia stepped closer, a grasp-width's away, and grabbed the door knob. He didn't twist it, not yet, but America's stomach was doing the dirty work for him, burning under his shadow. Russia was close, so very close, closer than they had been all day. America cracked his eyes open, trancelike, at Russia's lower body, in simple blue jeans and boots, beautiful and all, that damned suitcase still in hand.
America wanted to kick him in the stomach, on the floor, away from the door. He wanted to tear his suitcase to shreds and, and—then what? What could he possibly do?
"Excuse me, America," Russia murmured. And goddamn him, he was being gentle, and America wanted to scream, because this wasn't where he wanted to hear that voice.
No. You're not excused. Not until—
"Ivan loves you more than the world and heavens combined."
He hoped Italy was right.
America reached out. He placed his hand flat on Russia's chest, fingers fanned, grasping Russia's sweater, his scarf. Keeping him close, keeping him here.
America swallowed and looked up, the lump in his throat defying gravity with all sorts of flair. Into Russia's confused, searching eyes, the kind that could forgive and brood until his heart gave out. And America begged.
"Please. Just—don't leave."
Russia gripped the doorknob one more time before letting go, his arm falling to his side. His expression was guarded, broken up every now and then by shine spots in his eyes as they flickered between America's face and the hand on his chest.
"I am sorry, America, but I do not know what else—"
"No," America barked. He crumpled Russia's sweater into his fist, pushing but not really wanting to move him, just to feel, just to know he wouldn't go in any other direction but back. "I'm…sorry."
Russia was very still, but America wouldn't have known that. His own body was on its own skittering wavelength, and he was getting used to carpet-staring. He knew he was about to cry, and he fought it violently, not consciously noticing that Russia's hand, the one that had tried to open the door, come up and rest on America's wrist.
But subconsciously it was the perfect catalyst for America's half-hearted resolve.
"Really…I'm sorry. I was a major asshole and…It's just…ugh. I hate doing this shit." Alfred ran a shaky hand through his hair. "But really. I was a dick. And I said some things and…they were stupid. More stupid than usual. And I'm sorry, again." Then Alfred swallowed, felt the backs of his eyes heat up, forced himself to meet Russia's half-lidded gaze. "And I love you. So please don't leave."
Russia set down his bag and sighed. Stepped closer, arms outstretched. "America…"
"I'm not crying, dammit!"
"I did not ask if you were."
"Well, I'm not."
America slumped against Russia's chest, strong arms wrapping around his, holding him. Pressing them together—until America started shaking at just how stupid he was at this, how much Russia was so damn willing to hold him and run his fingers through his hair, like he was some weak little girl—not too far from the point, really—and just…forgiving him so damn easily.
But hell…Italy was right for once.
"Da, you are not crying," Russia whispered into his hair. "Then, please, do not worry about getting my sweater wet."
"Fine," Alfred growled, and decided it was within his right as a pure-blooded, hormonal American to grab Russia's waist and haul the both of them into his living room. Throwing his jacket and an amused Russia on the couch, America crawled on top of him. He buried his face indignantly in the crook of Russia's neck, breathing in his scarf, scars, and let the tears go silently as Russia wrapped his arms once more around him and whispered incoherent Russian-isms into his hair. And though Russia was eager to express forgiveness, tenderness, warmth, emotions that were quite easy for him to indulge in while in the States, he couldn't help but tip America's face to the side, gazing at the blooming, bruising hyacinth across America's cheek. America paid him no mind, his eyes closed to save himself some sort of dignity, but even he couldn't suppress the little winces that pattered about his body when Russia ran a finger over the bruise.
Russia sat up to kiss his cheek gently. "Tell me what happened."
America sniffed.
Russia shook him slightly, going so far as to maneuver himself so that he forced America's head up by pressing their foreheads together. "Not this again, Alfred. I think I have suffered enough silent treatments today. Why were you so upset this evening? Did something happen after the meeting?"
Well, America's luck ran out, and he knew it, pouting like a child against Russia's chest. He had rested his prayers on making his sob-fest worth the embarrassment, and that was contingent on whether or not Russia was willing to forgive him and drop it at that. America's first wish was granted—he was surprised that Russia was willing to stay after a few sorry's and I-love-you's. But he hadn't really planned to explain himself. Usually crying was enough to keep people off his back.
But this was Russia, and he was not other people. America told him of his afternoon fit with a calm, if bitter narrative. Even through the tears, America was hyper-tuned to Russia's movements and reactions, paranoid to the point of panic, picking out every arm squeeze, breathing change, body shift.
"I don't know," America murmured, "I just thought that…maybe I was fooling myself or something. And when I saw England, I guess…I remembered when he still took care of me. And I thought I just sorta grabbed you as a replacement."
Russia hummed. "Is it true?"
America punched his chest and glared, ignoring Russia's wince. "Of course not. Like I said, just a PMS-ing girl moment. I'm fine."
Russia chuckled. "Lying so soon, my little sunflower?"
"I'm not lying."
"You are not fine." Russia cupped America's bruised cheek. "That you are still lying to me is all the evidence I need. You are still afraid of me, da? Afraid enough to not trust me with your, as you call it, girl moment."
"I never said—"
Russia kissed him softly, letting his touch linger just enough for America to keep quiet. "You should know by now, Alfred, that I love you more than my own life. That means I give you everything: My heart, my soul, my secrets. Nothing in return. But you should know that everything you say to me remains, forever and always, locked away. You own your voice in me, Alfred. Never think I would throw it away for something as trivial as sex. You are worth so much more than that to me."
Some color warmed America's cheeks, his bruise a hot spot of pain. Sighing, he grabbed Russia's head and pulled it against his chest, letting him hear his rapid-fire heartbeats rather than risk the sanity of his own voice.
"And let me make this perfectly clear," Russia said, half-menacingly, half-warmly. "If you compare me to England one more time, you will never see the light of day again."
"You'd kill me?"
"I will board up all the windows in my home in Moscow and tie you to my bed forever, actually."
America snorted. "Shut up."
"Does it look like I am joking?"
"No," America said, wrapping his arms around Russia's neck with a little smile. "But you shouldn't have to worry, anyway."
That night, America was made all too aware of why he and Russia were who they were together, forever, only in the presence of each other.
And that's what they were. A hot-headed American spitfire, twined through and between the arms of a cold-blooded Russian on the verge of quiet insanity; and somehow they created a warm-blooded love that stumped the passions of the most zealous lovers, of the most celebrated love stories, and of the most loving of the loved. Because underneath their despairs and their ardors, their love was its own specialty: Love born of hate and madness, growing under the warmth of a summer sun, blooming into sunflowers and roses at the lightest of touches.
Love is a dance between two souls, but America and Russia knew better than that. Because when they were together, curled against each other, breathing in heartaches and exhaling heartbeats, there were no souls, no dancing. Because during those moments, America decides with a romantic smirk of the mind, their souls were just one.
A/N: I have this strange idea that, should one ever talk to a country about some topic singular to that specific country-in this case, Italy with love-said country might have a...sage-like moment. But that's just me.
I really, really, really like reviews; just passing-by notes or tasteful critiques keep me going; so, it would be BEYOND amazing if you wouldn't mind leaving me some to munch on as the summer rolls past.
Thank you for the taking the time to read this!