America slipped into the hotel room after a half-dozen times of checking over his shoulder to make sure that no one had seen him. His paranoia was something new, garnered by years of mistrust- taught to him by McCarthy, and etched into his mind through atom-bombs and Red Scares.
Communism hadn't just changed things for the communist states—he'd never be the same himself. But that didn't stop this game that he played, no matter how dangerous it got or what the consequences were. He had always liked playing with fire.
And so far he'd never been burned.
America had arrived at the dingy hotel at a quarter past nine. His boss was in a meeting, in a much better part of town. He could have chosen a nicer hotel to have his own meeting in-could have even chosen the Ritz if he'd really wanted-but neither him nor the person he was meeting wanted attract the attention of government officials or wannabe celebrities, and so they'd chosen to meet here, in a cheap hotel on the outskirts of the red-light district. While there were still eyes that could see them, those eyes were usually too glazed over by drugs and alcohol to even notice or care.
Russia was already waiting for him, sitting on the bed. His fingers were folded, posture straight, almost stiff. His eyes twitched up when he saw the American, and his lips curved into a barely there smile. He liked this game they played nearly as much as Alfred did. Nearly, only because Alfred doubted it was possible for anyone to like it better than him.
A hero needed a villain—Ivan… No, Russia was that for him and more.
"I'm sorry I always get us the shit hotels," Alfred mumbled, picking at a piece of lint on his shirt as if fixing one thing could fix another.
"It is alright, Alfred," Russia replied, lips twisting higher. He stood, crossing the room before pushing the door closed, pressing close to America to do it. America shivered, his eyes flicking across the other's face, though still refusing to meet that violet gaze. "I am used to such accommodations."
"And about the thing in Cuba…" America started again.
"We can be talking about that later, да?"
"And the U2 plane thing?" America continued, eyes flicking downward. He noticed the hammer and sickles on each of the buttons on Ivan's shirt. He turned his eyes away, choosing to look at the moth-eaten comforter instead.
Russia gave him a look that said he really didn't want to be discussing such things.
America didn't even notice.
"And…. This whole fucking thing, really. I'm being stupid, right?" Russia opened his mouth to answer him, and he held up a hand, silencing him. "Yeah, don't answer that. Just… didn't mean to start any of it. Do any of it, rather. You kinda started it…. But the bomb…"
"The bomb…?"
"Yeah…. And the space thing… I don't even know what I'm fighting for anymore…. Well, I know what I'm fighting for, but I dunno what I'm fighting against. You… You kinda suck, but… do we really have to… you know, keep going at it? Can't you just… stop?"
"Stop?"
"Stop being a fucking commie?"
A sigh-and then, "Америка?"
"Yeah?"
"Drop it, да?"
"Yeah… whatever. But this thing with Vietnam and Korea… and fucking China for god's sake is really starting to—"
"America…."
"Freak me out and I wish we could just stop, and you could take your ideas and—"
"Alfred."
"Shove them up your ass so I could just get some fucking rest and we could just… y'know, not just have a few hours here and there."
A silence, thick and heavy. Russia said nothing for a long moment, and America finally looked at him. Dark circles were smudged under dull violet and the childish smile had run away sometime in 1962 and had never returned. Then there was nothing to say, nothing that needed to be said, because America's mouth was on his, taking away his words with warmth and hollow promises.
For a few hours it was like this war of ice had never happened.
