Russia is far more entertained by the constant ticking of England's overgrown eyebrow then he should be, and knowing that his aggravation stems from Russia simply being there has his smile grow larger.
"What the hell are you smiling at?" he ends up growling at him. which only has Russia hum in amusement.
"I am only enjoying the company of my peer," he answers. "It is not often I am called on by others."
"I'd be surprised if any called on you at all."
The temperature of the room drops noticeably, a little fact England clearly chooses to ignore as he begins to dig around the inside of his jacket. He makes no move to give eye contact and completely misses Russia's smile freeze before turning malicious.
"I am able to recall many times when Amerika would pay me visits. For not only political reasons, I can assure you."
There's a muffled crunch sound and Russia does not hold back the giggle that escapes from the back of his throat. From the confines of his jacket, England pulls out a carton of cigarettes that has been crushed in his grasp. He looks at them distastefully before tossing the ruined pack on to the coffee table.
From there it goes quiet. The room is filled with nothing but the rising tension between the two men and the ticking of the wall clock hanging over the entrance to the hotel suite.
Eventually, Russia grows bored with waiting for their late third-party, and in enjoying the way England tenses, he decides to speak on the delicate situation they find themselves.
"I do have a question," he begins to say. Automatically, England's shoulders bunch together and eyebrows furrow. It has Russia smile.
"What is it?" he asks.
"Will there be, ahem, anything you will be objecting against?"
"I object to the whole idea?"
"Of course! Of course... But, because you are being very generous towards Amerika, I am thinking of being generous to you as well."
"How considerate," England bites out dryly. He's clearly unimpressed.
"Yes, I did think so. And so with that, I ask."
England inhales deeply, all while tapping his finger against the armrest of his chair. Russia waits patiently, watches with the utmost interest as the cogs in his head turn and mull over the proposal. Russia does his best to look nothing but innocent as England's too green eyes sweep over him, put him under inspection.
"You're not allowed to kiss him," he says sternly. "Not on the lips, I won't allow it."
Russia hums and nods in agreement. "I understand-"
"Also," England cuts in. "Also... You are not allowed to mark him, in any form. No bruises, no bite marks, nothing. Are we clear?"
Russia's eyes crinkle upwards as he smiles. He just knows this is going to be fun.
"Very."
For understandable reasons, England looks to remain unsatisfied. He continues to cross one leg over the other under Russia's gaze as the clock keeps ticking. Again, silence rings clear between them as they continue waiting. It goes on for much longer than it should. Honestly, Russia begins to wonder if America has rethought the whole thing. He knows he has no right to feel the sting in his chest, but it happens all the same.
England as well, appears to be thinking along the same lines. Though while Russia deflates internally, he shows his elation of the idea. Russia doesn't suppose he'll remain quiet for long. Eventually, he'll tell him that it's been called off, America is not coming, and he should just go home.
In fact, he fully expects such a conversation to take place when the simple ring of a cell phone begins to play, and once more England is reaching into his jacket.
"It's America," he says once looking at the caller ID.
Russia feels his stomach clench with nerves. Though as the conversation moves past the initial greeting, and England's brighten expression dims and soon falters, nerves become replaced with giddiness. He fights the urge to laugh at the frown England wears once more by the time he ends his call, though he supposes his please appearance does nothing to erase the foul expression he wears.
"He's on his way up," he tells Russia.
"How exciting."
His smile shows teeth, and England glowers.
The animosity is thick in the air, more than it has been before. An electric buzz permeates the air. One wrong word and Russia is more than certain the threat of a physical fight between them will escalate from a mere underlying threat to reality.
It feels as if an age has passed before there's the all too familiar sound of a card key being slotted into the lock of the door and the handle being grabbed before the door is even unlocked. It signals America's arrival, and unbeknownst to both men already residing inside they sit up straighter at the exact same moment and turn their heads as they watch the door open.
Russia smiles wide at America's appearance. The fact that America himself makes eye contact with him before England, petty as it may be, causes the air around him to change drastically. From the childish taunts riddled with tension, he relaxes into a softer disposition. His facial features, his stature, all of it becomes calmer with just America's presence.
Even with so much history, and so much between them, that much has never really changed.
"Hey, guys," he greets a little too bashfully for what is normal for him. "Sorry, y'know, for the being late thing."
"I am not surprised."
"I've come to expect it."
Both Russia and England reply at once, and both do not hesitate in showing just how much distaste they have for each other just by simply sharing the same thought. America for the most part does not seem to pay it any mind, or even really notice. Instead, he carefully makes his way into the small sitting room, and rather take a seat he stands close to England. Russia's eyes follow the hand that comes to rest on England's shoulder, the way he tips his head up to look at America, and the soft smile he receives in return is enough to make Russia's stomach turn.
He doesn't bother to fight the urge to destroy such a serene display.
"Well then," he begins. "Now that Amerika is present, when is it we shall get to business?"
It breaks the spell just as he wants. America's hand falls from England's shoulder, and as his attention turns to Russia England's face falls dejectedly before he hides how badly the loss is to him behind a neutral expression.
"Well," says America, "everything is still the same as from when I first talked to you about this. Nothing's changed. Unless you've changed your mind?"
Russia's smile turns into one he knows America is all too familiar with. He makes certain that when he speaks there is that subtle taunt that underlines his words.
"I am willing if America is."
There's that glint in America's eyes that always shines when the man is presented with a challenge. Russia knows he's won, as does England. He slouches back into his seat (all sense of manners and decorum lost) while America speaks.
"I'm still game." He pauses to spare a glance around the room and spots the door leading into the bedroom. "I'll go ahead and start getting ready. Give you time to consider backing out."
He's about to leave, start towards the bedroom door, when he bothers to look back at England and actually realizes how bothered he is by all of this. America places his hand on top of England's, another soft smile is given when the other looks to him. America leans his head in close, presses their foreheads together.
"I love you," he says and gently brings their lips together.
A surge of white noise fills Russia's ears. It statics and crackles as England suddenly uses both hands to grab at the lapels of America's jacket, clings and presses harder against him.
He's barely able to contain his trademark aura, and he must hold back the same chanting that tends to come from him when feeling particularly upset. It won't do well to show so much emotion. It's not as if he has the right to feel as much. Not when he has no real relevance to the scene playing out in front of him.
Russia does however, clear his throat to remind them of his presence. It has England finally relent his hold on America, and an ugly tension grips at his insides as America makes no real move away from England for the longest time. Instead, he cups his chin and the two share a rather loving look, speaking to each other without the use of words, and Russia swears he begins to feel nauseous.
He's unable to disturb this scene as he had the last. Just as he feels inclined to do so, America breaks away, leaving England to look on put out, and turns towards Russia.
"Follow me when you're ready," he says as nonchalantly as possible. "Y'know, whenever."
He doesn't look back at England, and Russia isn't quite sure what to make of that. Yet rather dwell on the matter, Russia only rises to his feet and waits a moment after America disappears down the short hall leading into the bedroom. When the door clicks shut behind him, Russia turns to England.
"Any other rules you are wishing me to follow?" he condescendingly asks.
England's mouth twists into an ugly scowl. He reaches forward for the ruined carton of cigarettes and opens it up to pick at what can be salvaged.
"Don't fall in love with him," he says in his own mocking tone. "What else do you want from me?"
The question is rhetorical, Ivan knows very well, but a sarcastic retort of asking him to drop dead rests heavy on his tongue and he is forced to ignore it. He's able to wrench himself away without exchanging another word and leave the room. He follows down the same path as America. All the while, Arthur's given set of "rules" chants through his mind:
No kissing.
No marks.
Don't fall in love.
The last may be a joke but it niggles at the back of his mind all the same. Russia barely pauses outside the bedroom door before entering. Inside, Alfred has already shed his jacket, his shoes, and he himself is already resting on top of the bed. The sight has Russia chuckle.
"Amerika is eager, yes?" he asks with eyes crinkled in amusement.
America rolls his eyes but does not respond to the jab. In a show of good faith, Russia begins to unbutton his own coat. For some reason it has America laugh.
"No need to make it a show," he says with amusement in his voice. "When did you become so precise in something like taking off your clothes?"
"Probably the same time you became so shameless with your own."
"I just wanted to be comfortable," America tells him. "Just in case…"
Though his fingers do not falter and eventually his coat comes to hang open, the way America trails off does leave him curious.
"Just in case?" he asks. "Just in case of what exactly?"
He can never truly tell with him, if Russia is honest. This whole debacle had come to a surprise to him and he would not be surprised in the least if there should be a secret agenda hidden somewhere in this whole exchange. As much as he would like to believe differently, Russia has been hurt by too many – including the man before him – to really put his heart on the line for any situation.
"Just in case," America shrugs. "I don't know… You may not wanna go through with it?"
There's something about the way he says that. Something that doesn't ring to the flyaway tone America tries to give his words. It reminds him of one night, oh-so-long ago, when the sight of bright blue eyes looked up at him for the first time with the same uncertainty, and the same fear of rejection. It had made him want to comfort the young nation then.
He thinks for the second time, that not much has changed.
Russia slips off his coat and drapes it carefully over his arm. He fixes America with a long regarding look, as if he's not quite sure what to make of him. He feels his pulse picks up at the sight of America lifting up his chin under that stare. Just as he had challenged him earlier, he feels the same being given to him now.
"Are you comfortable?" he asks with a hint of a smile. "Will you not even offer to help?"
"To take off your clothes?" America scoffs. "You getting that old?"
So he says, but America does move off the bed. He takes the coat from Russia and tosses it carelessly on to a nearby chair. Russia would make a comment, but he finds himself a little speechless at the easy way America comes to rest his hands against Russia's shoulders. The small caress of his hands against his button down sends a slight tremor down his spine and the way America tugs at his tie had him inhale deeply.
"You and your ties," America mutters and slips his fingers under the knot easily.
"You would wear them too," Russia replies just as quietly.
"I remember wearing them a bit differently." There's a smirk in his tone. "I remember taking them off differently, too."
"You did not take them off. You tore them off. And the bed posts too."
America laughs, and it's a happy one. He doesn't look up at Russia though. His face is still turned down and it isn't until Russia calls out his name. And then it's the eye contact again.
Russia has never really forgotten the brightness of America's eyes. They have always held semblance of a life filled with a future that only America could ever envision. Even after his own turmoil and speedy progression of growing so large and up so quickly, he never did quite lost that.
"Are you okay with this?" America asks.
"Why would I not be?" Russia asks in return.
"I'm serious."
Russia reaches forward to place his palm upon America's cheek. He cradles it, looks into his eyes, and says, "If I was not, I would not be here. Believe that, Amerika. I do not participate in such things I have no wish for."
America closes his eyes. He doesn't lean into Russia's touch, not exactly. He raises his head up slightly, eyes still closed, and Russia swoops his own downwards and presses a chaste kiss to America's lips.
They're still as pliant as he remembers. Still chapped as well, Russia just knows that he's been binging on drinking his beloved Coca-Cola once more. America never did drink enough water…
He quickly coaxes America to deepen the kiss to avoid the feeling he gets when remembering that little tidbit. He wants to squash down the little feelings he gets when he remembers all the small things about America he never really could forget.
America seems not to notice the small dilemma Russia is dealing with. He is only eager to allow Russia to manhandle him, and Russia takes the chance to do so with gusto. There is no finesse to their kiss, it soon grows from soft and breathy to something sloppier with America pressing himself closer to Russia's body. He wraps his arms around Russia's neck, brings them together to press chest to chest and Russia moves his own arms to wrap around America's waist.
When they break apart, and then it's a race to see whose clothes are able to come off faster. Russia has to stop America from growing to frantic and tear his shirt right off from him.
"Do you not remember, Tehran?" he asks. "My boss was regretting so much to have invited the Americans to stay with us when I was losing pieces of my uniform left and right."
"Couldn't help it," America laughs. "We didn't have a lot of time."
His tone says more than his actual words. America has never been one for subtlety, but when he does use it, it makes an impression. It's true, during their conference they did not have much time, but more than that was the inevitable fallout that would happen soon afterwards.
Russia does not mention that. He allows it to be said and pushes America's jacket from his shoulder and quickly tugs at the hem of his shirt. America raises his own arms, allows Russia to pull it up and over his head, and allows him to push him back on to the bed before climbing right over him.
And so it goes, throughout the night. Entangled limbs and teasing touches are exchanged through the night between their romps underneath the thin sheets. Russia presses small kisses along America's neck whenever he is given the chance, always ending them with a sharp nip at the other's collarbone. He thoroughly enjoys this part; he loves to hear the sharp inhale of America's breath and the shudder that passes through him. He loves the small pool of blood that rises up and shows through his skin to make his mark; proof that he was there. He can feel America's toes curl when he gently laps over them and there is warm pleasant feeling goes through him knowing he's the one to do that.
Knowing that he can still do that.
Eventually, they both drift off to sleep in the early hours of the morning. Dawn follows soon after and unfortunately because they are both too used to rising with the sun, they stir back awake on their sides and staring at one another. There is nothing said between the two, there is nothing that needs to be said.
Russia is the first to rise. The cold air swarms over his naked body as the warmth of the bed from its blankets and other inhabitant drain away. He takes his time with redressing; very much aware of the fact that his clothing is wrinkled and he is carrying the scent of sex from last night. He is also very much aware of the fact that America watches his every move. There is no denying the eyes that are kept on himself as he goes about collecting his belongings.
When he turns back, dressed once more and stares down at America still lounging naked in bed. Still, America says nothing, though he does offer Russia a small smile before falling onto his back with a soft thump and a deep sigh.
It's…. not aggravating. Not exactly, in any case. There is no reason for Russia to find any of this to be so, but it does bother him. When America had first called for this arrangement, when he had first called to set up this arrangement, he will admit to jumping at the opportunity for his own selfish reasons. What he will not admit though, is understanding why this happened at all. America had told him that England asked what we would like for the momentous occasion of his 300th birthday approaching, and America had confessed to wanting one night spent with Russia.
Thinking back on the conversation though, Russia cannot truly remember if that meant what had happened or if it meant something more platonic. He naturally assumed it meant sex, and America was quick to go along with his teasing that being with England so long had begun to grow stale and agree that was his intention. With that, what else was he supposed to think?
This though… This behavior that America is showing him is saying something else entirely. And for once in his life America is being too subtle with whatever message it is. He needs to know. It'll drive him crazy if he doesn't.
"Why?" he asks him. "Why did you ask for this? Why did you ask for England to give you this exactly?"
America does not look at him. His own blue gaze is focused on the ceiling above. When he speaks, it's as if he's confessing to any greater being above rather the other man in the room with him.
"It wasn't just because I wanted to have sex with you. Honestly, I didn't even really expect that to come up when I asked you for a night, if that's believable at all. And I'm gonna go ahead and be honest again and say that I actually did miss that too, there's no point lying about that. I love England, I do, I just wish he would be rougher with me every now and then, whatever that's off point. But… I don't know, I thought maybe we could just have one night to really have one another because… well, because… I didn't like the way we ended. I didn't like how – we said we would keep our politics out of it. But we never could. We never could do that and… it was ugly."
America finally turns his head. Looks straight into Russia's eyes and says his name.
"Ivan."
Russia cannot hold the small hitch in his breath.
"I'm sorry."
There's no way he can hold this stare and not show his emotions. Russia ends up looking away, trying for something casual. He's not sure how successful he really is.
"I am at fault as well," he says. "Half of it, was also my responsibility."
America laughs softly. "What a coupl'a saps we are, huh? Wish we could'a been this mature about it then."
Russia doesn't bother to say the same. He wishes. He does.
"No use cryin' over spilled milk, though," America goes on. "Right?"
"Right?"
And then, without hearing the aching sound in Russia's chest, America extends his arm out across the mussed sheets. His palm facing upwards as if asking for another hand to be placed in his and Russia… Russia cannot deny him. He reaches forward and gives America his hand. He allows it to melt in the blond's grasp.
"Friends?" he asks with the semblance of a smile Russia remembers seeing for the first time so many years ago.
"Of course," Russia agrees and lets go first. "I should be taking my leave now, however."
"Yeah, we gotta get back out there to the real world and all."
It's a joke, Russia knows and America is smiling while he says it, but he can't help but feel something regrettable about them all the same. He asks America if there's anything else he should do before he leaves. America tells him kindly that no, he's free to go on back to his busy schedule and his own social life (Russia does not correct him about the lack of one he has), that England should be around soon to collect him so they can head back to their shared housing in America's capital for the remainder of his lover's visit.
Russia does not say much after that. He only says his goodbyes then and leaves the room after he finishes collecting his things. He steps out back into the rest of the suite and makes right for the door. There's no reason left for him to be here. He's done what America had asked from him, and now England will come back and the two will go on as they have for who knows how long.
Russia doesn't pretend that even if their happy domestic life won't be forever, for them, it still may very well be a long time. And when it ends He will settle for the small petty battle won of his intentional dismissal of those rules England gave him. Though really, how was he expected to avoid them all?
No kissing his lips? Preposterous. He would dare not pass on the opportunity.
No leaving marks? Again, unthinkable. Such actions will not allow such markings to remain unavoidable.
No falling in love?
Well, he had done that long before this little affair took place. He can't be faulted for that.
xxx
Disclaimer: Gave up my body and bed all for an empty hotel.
-there was going to be detailed smut.
-but i wanted the fic to be more sad than smutty.
-idk
-stay shiny lovelies. xoxo