Past, Present, Future
America had not bothered to set the alarm clock last night for a few reasons, one of the biggest being that it was the weekend and he'd be damned if he would wake up earlier than need be. The second reason was the fact that Russia's snoring usually woke him just as well as any blaring alarm clock could.
This morning, he was not disappointed.
The hairs on the back of his neck rustled lightly in the gentle breeze of Russia's loud breathing, the latter laying flush against America, an arm and leg draped over America's body. America could feel the gentle rise and fall of Russia's shoulders as he slept, soft little gusts tickling his neck. For the moment, America was content to simply listen, himself feeling lulled by the rhythm. It was easy to doze off, even with Russia's snoring. He was warm, the blankets were soft, his boyfriend was cuddled close, the snoring was fading into white noise…
Until a particularly loud snore rumbled through Russia's chest, up his throat, rousing both of them. The sheets rustled as Russia leaned up. America turned over in time to see him blink in confusion, as if unsure what had woken him.
"Mornin'," America said with a wry smile, drawing close to press a light kiss to Russia's chin. Already a short crop of pale hairs covered his jaw, drawing a soft laugh from America as they scratched at his own smooth skin.
"Dobroye utro," Russia mumbled in return, his internal translator taking a few moments to kick in.
"Good morning to you too," America replied warmly, drifting near again. The first instant of contact always left him wanting more, even beneath the weight of lingering drowsiness. "Sleep well?"
Russia hummed. "Neplokha, a ti?" he asked softly. America felt Russia's long, pale fingers card through his hair, scratching soothingly at the scalp.
"Can't complain," America admitted, smile growing into a playful smirk. "Even though it sounded like there was a thunderstorm throughout the night." He jabbed at Russia's thick, hardened torso.
Violet eyes blinked slowly. "It rained?" Russia asked at last, snatching at America's offending hand.
"No, idiot, I mean your snoring. You're like some motorboat ridden by a bear on a speeding train."
"That does not make any sense." And it was not the slow morning English comprehension causing it.
"Sure does, pal." America pulled his hand free to deliver another poke. A jolt of triumph shot through him when he felt Russia twitch. "I'll bet you've seen plenty of bears driving motorboats on trains at your place."
"I have seen one to play the trumpet." Russia slid away from America as his bedmate continued poking his side, curling in on himself protectively. America was a cruel sleeping partner.
Not to be discouraged, America pursued him across the spacious king-sized bed, infuriatingly vibrant grin still in place. "Something wrong?" he asked, tone innocent, expression anything but.
"Back away, Jones," Russia warned, one arm wrapped defensively over his torso, the other raised in warning.
The warning was ignored.
With a whoop, America launched himself across the final distance separating them, fingers prodding, poking, dancing over any sensitive area he could reach. Russia groaned, a drawn out rumble that wavered with the forced laughter spilling from his mouth. Russia drew his knees up to his chest, shoulders quaking as he squirmed, trying to block America out. But America was insistent, and the movement of Russia's legs gave him inspiration. Russia was allowed a mere second's reprieve before another convulsion wracked through his body. America laughed along with him, one hand clutching Russia's ankle tightly, the other tickling his foot mercilessly. The sheets were tugged and twisted beneath Russia as he himself pulled and writhed, red in the face and breathless from laughter. "Alfred," he gasped, fisting a hand into the blankets.
America took a final moment to appreciate the view before at last relenting. He released Russia's foot with great ceremony, lowering it back to the ruined bed. Beside him, Russia was panting, a tired, almost pained smile in place as his chest rose and fell in great swells.
"I love the fact that you're so ticklish," America said fondly. He looked far too smug than anyone had a right to be at that moment, but there was an unmistakable fondness in his gaze as he watched his lover.
Russia, meanwhile, raised a fist, thumb resting between index and middle finger. If looks could kill…well…they would not be able to do most of the things they had planned for today.
"Hey, truce?" America said casually, extending a hand.
Russia stared at the hand. Slowly, his own hand currently performing a rude gesture moved over to clasp America's in a sign of peace.
America smiled.
So did Russia.
It was not a sincere one. The realization had sunk in for but a heartbeat before Russia sprang into action. With a jolt, America was pulled close, and in a flurry of movement they were both off the bed. America's world had flipped upside down as he was flung over Russia's shoulder. "Hey!" he exclaimed in confusion, hands smacking lightly at the broad expanse of pale back which was all he could easily reach. Try as he might, he could not dislodge himself from his perch, even as Russia marched out of the bedroom and into the bathroom. America felt himself be lifted bodily from Russia, only to find himself in the large bathtub.
The sound of the faucet handles was his only warning of what was to come. Cold water spewed from the mouth of the faucet, pouring down to the bottom of the tub, splashing a freezing spray all around. America shrieked, scrambling clumsily in the slippery tub; it was his turn, now, to twist and claw his way to a freedom that was not his to enjoy. Cold water soaked his boxers and pajama pants, goosebumps springing up across his skin.
And all the while, Russia smiled down at him with a kind of grim satisfaction. "All about equality, yes?" he said conversationally.
Glowering, America cupped some water into his hands and flung it at Russia, who cringed away from it. "Yeah? Come on- come a bit closer, try me!" America said, riling himself up. Those words alone were enough to ignite the spark of a challenge in Russia's eyes. The Slav crossed the remaining distance in one swooping motion, hands scooping up water and splashing it at America as the latter returned the favor. Their makeshift splash battle turned into a very clumsy grappling match, culminating in America tugging Russia's head down to let the cold water spill over his head. Through his spluttering, Russia clambered into the tub, the better to try and push America down into the growing pool of icy water. Inattentive, amused, and prone to accidents, it was no surprise when they both ended up slumped at the bottom of the tub, panting and red-faced, both sopping wet and shivering.
And laughing.
In their current state, the best course seemed obvious: sharing a bath. And, it transpired, this decision worked in both their favors.
The water filling the tub now considerably warmer, America sighed against Russia's chest, tangling their legs together under the soapy little waves. Even with the thick dusting of platinum hairs on Russia's legs, chest, arms, and the like, his skin felt blissfully smooth against America's touches. The water let his fingers glide over the pale, scarred flesh like a skater over ice. Except no gouges would be left by America's caresses, no morbid scars as proof of where he touched. Their presence was marked only by the happy little shudders and content sighs they evoked from Russia, Ivan, his Vanya.
"I think we can agree I won this round," Russia said casually, sunset eyes sparkling.
America raised an eyebrow. "Can't really see where you got that idea from, babe. I wrestled the big bad bear by doing nothing but tickling him. It only stopped cause I got my share of seeing your cute face looking all red."
"And would you call taking an ice cold bath a victory for you as well? I know you are so sensitive to extreme cold."
"Bastard."
"Suka." Silence met his verbal jab. "No retort?" Russia asked, sounding genuinely curious.
America shook his head, eyes closed as he sank further against the warm silky presence beside him. Despite their teasing, Russia readily tightened his hold round the other. "Nope. Just wanna enjoy right now, being like this."
Russia stared down at America for a long, contemplative moment. His eyes lingered over America's uncharacteristically serene demeanor. In their lives of immortal nationhood, politics, and registering the trends and feelings of their people, moments of calm like this were valuable treasures. When this courtship had begun, it was when there was no concern of it ending, how it might end, how they would proceed. When the wills of mortal men playing God became near inextricably involved in their personal lives, they had faced it with their heads held high.
And behind closed doors. If they wanted this precious fount of happiness, it was sometimes necessary to work around those who would control them by disregarding their humanity. And with that decision to pursue a relationship regardless of what others wanted, they had determined they would limit politics, and forge a relationship based on balance and honesty. It was a delicate balance that was upset more times than not. But it let them have what they wanted: each other.
America felt the single rise and fall of Russia's chest as Ivan sighed. "You do not normally get like this," Russia pointed out rather correctly.
America shrugged, a tan shoulder rising and falling gently beneath the mound of suds crowded around their entwined figures. "I don't normally get to have you all to myself." People who had on the receiving end of Russia's territorial smile knew he could be clingy, but that did not mean America was not. Quite the contrary. But his was a more subtle brand that did not detract from its potency. After managing to maintain such happiness with Ivan, he was not overly thrilled at the prospect of anyone ruining it, even with Russia's blatant and subtle assurances that no other suitors could possibly catch his attention for even an instant.
"Even so, sometimes you are all over the place, wanting to experience everything at once. It feels like there is no holding you down, no having moments like these."
It was America's turn to slowly exhale his trepidations. He drew a leg up to rub up and down Russia's shin, cuddling closer, lips brushing Russia's collarbone, his broad shoulder, his scarred neck. "Your fault," he murmured in a voice of melted chocolate.
"How is that m-"
"Your fault." America placed the tip of his fingers over Russia's lip, silencing him but also earning a stern look. The finger was soon replaced by America's lips, massaging apologetically against Russia's mouth. America knew his trivial little cutoff was forgiven when Russia's own thin, soft lips moved against his own.
Spats of more severity often took a bit more to settle, but through even the worst of them America had not doubted they would find a way to repair things between them. That did not mean the time in between was spent contentedly- quite the opposite. For all his optimism, America's insides always turned to ice when he thought of Russia no longer desiring his presence, as if Russia's spectral winter guardian had frozen his very soul. In those moments, he knew it was the fears of Alfred Jones that filled him with worry, that it was Alfred's love for Ivan that made it hard to concentrate in meetings when Russia was sitting in sunlight and his hair shimmered with dozens of different immaculate colors all of which he wanted to identify while brushing the soft strands with his fingers, feel the happy rumble that traveled through Russia's body throughout his ministrations.
It was this vivid desire that drove America to push himself up slightly, water cascading down his shoulders and arms as his strong tanned fingers wandered to Russia's scalp. Despite a moment of confusion, Russia obliged him, shimmying lower to allow for better access.
"How do you get it so soft?" America wondered aloud. Droplets from his hands caught in Russia's platinum locks, adding sparkle to its shine.
"It just is," Russia said simply, eyes sliding shut, long pale lashes brushing his cheek. Safe, warm, he tilted his head for further access, more soothing touches.
"It's Russian," America said, deepening his voice and taking on a thick accent.
"What?" A violet eye opened,
"It's Russian," America recited again. "You know, the big plane?"
Russia did not know, and the repercussions included a major splash to the face, an attempted dunking, a nose pinch, and an apology kiss to said nose. By the time they were done, the water was turning lukewarm. At last, they rose to continue with their day. For Russia this involved a thorough shave of the accumulating stubble on his chin while America provided over dramatic commentary like some sports anchor. America then went through his own bathroom routine that involved a lot of singing, wielding the hairbrush as a microphone. When at last they were fully cleaned, dried, and dressed, Russia claimed a spot at the stove to prepare blini for them, though it was not long before he had to share. America wasted no time in hovering beside or against Russia, one arm draped loosely along Ivan's strong, broad back. Watching Russia cook, America tugged idly at the string of Russia's apron. "Ready yet?"
"They will be ready sooner if you stop asking," Russia shot back, barely sparing him a glance. That didn't stop him from landing a hard smack to the back of the hand with the spoon he held when America poked his finger into the batter.
"Ouch! Ya know, it's in poor taste to abuse your host, Braginsky."
"It is in poor taste to interrupt a master at his work." The wood spoon was jabbed dangerously close to America's chest.
"You wound me…again," America said, blue eyes wide and sad behind his glasses. "You know, I was totally fine cooking breakfast. It's kinda only fair- you are the guest."
Turning back to his work, Russia waved the comment away dismissively. Spoon set aside, he carefully poured the batter into a pan. "We can switch. Or you can make the meals if you can ever beat me to it," he dictated, taking up the wood utensil once more.
America tugged at the apron string once more, a little more insistently. "Sounds like a challenge," he drawled, chin resting on Russia's shoulder. Russia made a point of shifting a lot beneath him.
"Smart boy. But a challenge is something you have a hope of accomplishing."
"You admitting it'd be too easy for me to win, old man?"
"I am saying," Russia said, turning at last to look him full in the face. There was a merry yet intense light in his violet eyes America had grown very accustomed to seeing. "That for all your efforts, you will not win. But that is fine- I have a lot of food I want to introduce you to. I trust you will not complain?"
America pursed his lips, eyes roving over Russia, then to the pan, and around the kitchen. "I…suppose," he said finally, after a great show of debate. "Yeah, I can find reason to accept defeat with grace."
"Remarkably mature of you."
"I've been known to have my moments."
"I can count them on one hand," Russia said smoothly, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.
"Yeah, well, you have yeti hands, so each finger should count for three."
"Excuse me?" Russia asked in amused incredulity, placing several thin blini onto each of their plates and grabbing fillings. For himself he spooned on several dollops of jam and sour cream, while Alfred lathered Nutella onto his.
"You heard me," America chortled, settling down and digging in. "They're, like, bigger than my head."
"My greatest insecurity," Russia sighed, shaking his head. Chuckling to himself, he rolled up one of the crepes, but before he could take a bite there was a pressure on his leg. America knelt beside his seat, a crepe of his own held up before him.
"Forgive me, gorgeous?" America asked, blinking those dazzling blue eyes prettily.
Russia allowed himself a moment to stare openly, drinking in that alluring sight, before America's posture finally clicked in. His smile came naturally, but with the faintest tinge of sadness to it. Sometimes it was interesting to think what they could have been if they'd been allowed to ask…that question. He nodded. "I do," he said. It was hard to tell if America understood the double meaning behind his words, but it brought a warmth to his chest to say them. "Come on and eat- I was promised skating and setting a fire."
America scrambled up to press a wet kiss to his cheek, then to his lips. Russia tasted sugar and chocolate. "As you wish, handsome."
Much of their morning passed in such a manner, with banter, teasing, and no shortage of affection.
"Alfred, I think that is my sweater," Russia pointed out. They sat on a bench of an indoor ice rink, doing up the laces of their skates. He had not noticed before, but watching America now constantly rolling up his sleeves, it was obvious the sweater he wore was too big.
America continued working, tongue poking out between his pink, kissable lips. "Know that, babe. I like wearing your stuff."
"Oh." Russia could not find much to object about as they headed onto the ice. Except that he couldn't wear as much of America's clothes, because they were simply too small or short or both. That had not stopped him from trying, with results of varying success. One time he had been determined to help himself to one of America's graphic image t-shirts, a vibrant sleek blue one with a silver star emblazoned on the chest (he chalked it up to a lingering nostalgia from when graphic t-shirts had been in very short supply and even shorter production). It had been a combined effort between the two of them to free him, but not before America took his time "appreciating the view," only to then uncooperatively pepper kisses all over his exposed skin while Russia squirmed and tugged and tried to free himself. That night when they went out for drinks he had gotten a little more drunk than initially intended. Normally he did not go beyond the Singing and Dancing stages of drunkenness, but according to Alfred he has transcended into the Chatty stage and almost made it to the Brooding stage.
Today, when he slid into a black turtleneck, head emerging with his hair tousled, America had stepped into the room, took one look at him, and claimed to have fallen in love again.
Now, on the ice, they clasped hands as they skated side-by-side, drifting closer and farther, always tethered by their gentle grasp.
As they skated, Russia recalled that instant when America proclaimed falling in love once more. America said those three words often, always with the same doting expression, even when his tone was tender or if it were amused. It always brought a delightful ache to Russia's chest, because he knew America's lying tells- and he never expressed any of them when proclaiming his love. It remained something of a marvel to Russia, and he only hoped he never looked as dazed as he felt.
The very first time America had said it, the shock and disbelief had nearly ruined all. Upon hearing those words, spoken during stolen hours of togetherness they had forged for themselves, bathed in candlelight, America's warm hand draped over his own, Russia had stared. Then, he had shaken his head. He had been too caught up in the rush of ice filling his stomach to immediately notice the hitch in America's breath, or the way his eyes became glassy, even distant.
But Russia's only immediate response had been to shake his head.
Not out of rejection, though. And it had taken several long moments, painful for the both of them, before that could be explained. And even then, America would have to piece it together overtime. Hearing such words from America, from his first and greatest friend in awhile, Alfred, it had meant too much. Too much to be real. Too much to be false. Disbelief overtook Russia, the wretched feeling threatening to push his heart right from his chest. Over the centuries of his life, Russia had learned patience, abundantly so, and so he learned to wait, to accept the hand he'd been dealt, and endure. And so he would not let those morbid thoughts of falsehood and pain overcome him, would not let his own doubt and poor self-worth ruin this wonderful chance. That simple shake of the head had been for himself, a warning to silence such negativity, to give Alfred a chance, to give the sincerity in his words a chance.
He would not be the cause of them not working, not from something as basic as uncertainty.
For all everyone said about America being unobservant, he was not at all without wisdom. He noticed the hesitancy that plagued Russia, that desire to give himself fully to what they had, but always with a morbid thought that it could end at any point, that none of his happiness was fated to last…none of it deserved to last.
Not as a hero but as the man who loved Ivan Alfred made it his mission to eliminate all of Russia's reasons for doubt- permanently. Words of devotion, assuring touches, reminders of how important he was to him- Alfred would spare no expense. And his efforts were made worth it with every chip of the wall he knocked away. Soon there would be nothing left. Someday, Russia would be free of his fears, or at least rid of any barriers preventing him from fighting such fears with another.
Even now, as America allowed himself a look at Russia's serene expression as he glided effortlessly across the ice, he could see a newfound ease in his actions. When America moved away and drew near, Russia let him, did not feel the need to reinitiate contact himself- he simply knew America would come back, trusted him to return to him.
So he did. Each and every time.
And when they did come back together, it was always with lingering touches that sent jolts of warmth and electricity and fire and ice and life and love through their every nerve. America would always return- he simply did not know how not to. Feeling Ivan's hand wrapped around his own felt like security, assurance, a silent promise.
Beside him, Russia at last took the initiative and drifted exceptionally close. "You look very handsome in my clothes," he purred, fingers dancing delicately over the buttons of his coat, adjusting the collar.
"Glad you approve." America smiled up at him. "Do I get anything for impressing the judge?"
Russia thought for a moment before nodding. In lieu of an answer he leaned down and pressed his lips to America's, drawing a sigh from the other. Arms snaked around each other as each tried to drink in as much of the other's presence as they could before the need for air took over. Russia was treated to a view of America was reddened cheeks and even redder lips that were parted as he panted. From his reflection in America's glasses, he knew he was not much better.
"Thanks, beautiful," America said as he caught his breath.
"The pleasure was mine."
The pleasure was both of theirs, for differing reasons that, at their core, came down to one fundamental similarity that drove them each and every day. Love. And that alone was all the promise they would need.