A/N: So, like, yeah. No explanation.
The Ride
There was the quiet, screeching sound of the windshield wipers trying desperately to keep the shield free of the falling snow, and of the heater blowing harshly, turning their skins pink, and they rode in the back together, driven by some ambassador or another and his driver. America had forgotten which country they were in now. He doubted Russia had.
Despite the heat which had America nearly gasping for thick breaths, Russia still seemed cold, shivering slightly and holding his arms against his stomach. America refrained from asking for the heat to be turned down. He looked back at Russia, saw the slight sheen of sweat against his brow, and again refrained from speaking.
Russia tightened his loosening scarf; America coughed lightly to his other side. They rode on.
When America lowered his cough-covering fist and turned back to Russia, he found wide, violet eyes turned towards him; he stumbled once, but his ego and his confidence had him staring back. Russia blinked once, turned away, put his arms back against his ribs. America looked out the window.
Time passed. The screeching continued. The hot air blew. They rode on.
America felt a hand against his shoulder, turned back, found the big Russian sitting closer, looking him in the eyes. He frowned. Russia smiled; kissed on the side of America's mouth; shamelessly kissed and nipped and sucked; found his pleasure in the unforgiving "Ah!" that escaped America's tight throat.
The driver and the ambassador ignored them. They rode on.