A/N: This is based largely on F.'s "Finis", which is in the public domain, so don't kill me please.
-.-.---.-..-.. .--.-.-.
Dimly, America remembers he once thought of Russia as ugly. That he looked at the pale hair and paler skin and large frame and something in him was appaled.
He has to laugh. It's not really funny, but a hysteric noise makes its way up his throat, and he has to let it out or suffocate. Russia glances at him, eyes wide, and then his lips curve upward into a smile and his hand reaches for America's, the skin reddened by something like sunlight.
The new star has come.
Russia has laughed, too, earlier. When at first the sky colored blood-red, new light spilling over the horizon, and then the star ascended, a thousand times brighter than the Earth's sun, and red.
"Look, America, a red star!"
And he'd laughed, and said "Who would've thought?".
America contemplates if he should compare the new star that's risen to communism, how it looks bright and like a good idea at first, and then suddenly everything goes up in flames.
But what good would that do? It's over.
America has never thought these words before, but now he does.
It's over.
At the first signs of danger, he had gone to buy canned food and batteries and flashlights, because that's what you need when the world ends, right?
Wrong.
You need something, someone to hold on to, need to make peace with your enemies, because what do they care about clashing ideologies if tomorrow the world will belong to protozoa yet again?
Without humans, there are no nations.
Russia is paler than him, and his skin burns up faster, but both of them are sunburnt now, and there are blisters on America's shoulders from where the radiation went right through the material of his clothes. Russia's fingers slide over his cheeks, and the skin is tight and sensitive there, it itches.
America sighs, leans into the touch, and takes a furtive glance at what is left of the house they've found refuge in.
It isn't much. The metal skeleton is only covered by concrete flesh in pieces, most is smashed, and the lower levels are flooded already. It's dark, now, with a bare red hint at the edge of the world.
Dawn is coming, and death is coming with it.
By dawn, the new star will have burned too many people in the northern hemisphere for either of them to survive.
By dawn, they'll be dead.
America slides the very last protective gear that hasn't done any good at all from Russia's body. His tongue trails over sunburnt skin, making the other squirm and gasp, the sounds of pleasure intermixed with a breathy little laugh.
Isn't irony a wonderful thing?
When news came that a new star was coming, they'd swallowed down their hatred and sat together in the laboratory, over calculations and tables and expectantly gazing into telescopes. And they'd grown closer.
"милый, one last time..."
Never – never – before has he said...is it a term of endearment? Does he care?
He doesn't.
A last time. Before the world will lie in ruins. Before it's too late.
America leans closer.
Russia's arms are around his waist, and very suddenly they're on the floor, nothing but a few pieces of ragged carpet between sensitive skin and concrete.
He finds lips that have blistered, and the kiss is wet and breathless, the air too hot to breathe anyway.
They breathe each other.
America feels fingers, clumsy, hasty, trying to tear the last of his clothing off. A race has begun.
Can they heal against each other, broken pieces and all, before the star ascends again and burns the last of their people away?
Russia's fingers are desperately rough and fast, like he can't wait (they can't wait, there is no time to be wasted) and America bucks into the touch, wanting more.
And Russia gives more, gives him more open-mouthed kisses and more erratic, jerking movements of his wrist and -
He is breathing hard, but not only in pleasure, it's becoming difficult.
America dredges up the very last bit of strength he has, from somewhere and nudges Russia until his former arch-enemy is lying on his back, half-supported on his elbows.
"That's right..."America mumbles, because it is right. It's right that Russia manages to get one once-strong arm under him, and it's right that a pair of fingers start pressing at America's entrance, and he tilts his head back, grits his teeth and lets him, because what does it matter now?
And it's right that these fingers start moving in tight little circles now, making something within America grow hotter and tighter until it boils over and he tugs at Russia's wrist until the clever fingers move away and he slides down to replace them with something far more potent.
His tilted-back head falls forward, until his face is pressed into the painfully red skin of Russia's shoulder, and his lips and teeth move against that skin, trying to dredge up pain or pleasure or both or anything at all.
His knees ache where he supports himself on the floor, but what does he care? He starts moving, harder, rocking his hips and biting down on sunburnt flesh when Russia's fingers close around him again. Russia makes a half-pained sound, falling back until his shoulders rest on the floor, and America is straddling him and has to do all the work, but that's okay. It's really okay.
America bends down, his back aches in skin and muscle and bone, and their blistered lips press together, and absurdly, the blaze starts at that point, spreading outward and down, like wildfire.
America feels the edge and that he's standing at it, and he feels that he really doesn't hate Russia any more, and hopes that the other feels the same.
And lets himself fall.
His body twitches in great spasms, like laughter or sobs, and the extasy is a blaze within him, climbing higher and higher until it spills hotly on Russia's stomach.
Every breath is a fight against the superheated air, and through the building's broken wall, they can see the star has started its ascent yet again.
"Goodbye, Америка."
Damn him. There is still a shred of laughter in his voice. America presses his face against the other's skin so he doesn't have to see the end.
"до свидания, Russia."