This is a fic for the 2010-11 Christmas Exchange at the Russiamerica community on livejournal! The story is for lokichan2004, who asked for something based on the prompt "America likes Tchaikovsky. Like, a lot. Russia doesn't know this until he drops by unannounced one day and hears his most famous composer playing on America's stereo. Cue teasing on Russia's part." I hope the dialogue turned out okay, since I'm not usually very good at it!

Friday was America's de-stressing day. That meant that on Fridays he came home, changed into a pair of sweats and fuzzy socks, put on some relaxing music, and played Pokémon for an hour or two straight. He usually watched a movie later (strictly Disney or Westerns), treating himself with plenty of popcorn and candy. Fridays were good days, days when he could just be Alfred F. Jones for a little while.

December 3rd was an ordinary Friday as far as America was concerned. His joy at seeing his states for Thanksgiving had just started to fade. He was distracting himself by thinking about Hanukkah and Christmas – but still, the house had felt very empty lately. Normally Friday meant a McDonald's run around seven or so, but tonight was a Paula Dean frozen dinner night, for sure. He waved goodbye to the crowd at the White House at ten minutes to four – ignoring the pointed look his boss cast at the clock – and cruised home in his beat up old Chevy, humming along to "Jingle Bells" on the radio.

Stepping into his house was a relief after the chill in the air outside. This kind of weather was the pits; way too damn cold, and without any snow even to make it worth it. America started undressing before he even reached his room, crawling into his favorite, pretty ratty pair of sweats with a sigh and dumping his work clothes unceremoniously on the pile next to his bed. Somehow his dirty clothes had a bad habit of multiplying.

There was a disapproving noise from the doorway. America turned to see Tony standing in the doorway, his arms crossed in an eerie imitation of England.

America frowned at him, trying his best to look tired instead of merely lazy. "I'll pick them up later, I promise."

Tony wasn't buying it. "You'll forget about them and end up not washing them for a month." His friend told him matter-of-factly as he turned to climb up the attic steps. "I'm working on something."

"Alright, I'll bring you up some food later. Sound good?"

Tony nodded and gently slid the attic door shut behind him. America cast a half-hearted look down at the clothes still lying bunched-up on his floor, but at that moment he really couldn't bring himself to care about them.

The living room couch cushions were calling his name. America flopped himself into the middle of the couch and pulled on his stars and stripes snuggie with a contented little sigh. After some fishing between the cushions, he found the remote for the stereo and turned it on. The first CD in the tray was the latest Glee CD – America could feely admit he was a Gleek and had rushed out to buy every CD the day it was released. America listened to the first track for a bit, but finally he shook his head and moved on. Glee was awesome, but he wasn't really in the mood for pop.

The next CD was Chopin, who America liked but had no strong feelings about. The third CD, though, was Tchaikovsky, and there America stopped—and set the stereo on repeat, for good measure. America did actually like classical music, especially the music from Russia's house, although he would have died rather than admit it. He used to think of it as the kind of music only stuffy old Austria enjoyed, but America had visited the New York Philharmonic once when it first opened, and that was it – he was in love with the emotion, the structured beauty he had heard.

The subtle melody of a piano piece washed over America as the first track began, and he could feel his muscles start to uncoil and relax. With a lazy sweep of his arm America pulled a pillow under his head and snuggled into it. He cast a glance at the DSi sitting on his coffee table, but his eyelids were already starting to droop. He was vaguely aware of the music growing and filling the room as he drifted off to sleep.

It was dark when America woke. Someone was cooking—Tony? It smelled like hamburgers. America tried to pull the blanket off before he remembered that it was his snuggie. He ended up just rolling over and dropping off the couch onto his feet. This was an impressive feat in America's opinion, considering the number of times he'd tried it and ended up slamming his hip against the coffee table. He'd forgotten to turn the thermostat up earlier, and his house was still a little chilly. America tugged the snuggie in tighter as he made his way over to the kitchen.

"Tony?" he asked, peeking in.

"Oh, you woke up!" There was Russia, standing at his stove with spatula in hand as though it was the most natural thing in the world. America stared for a moment before his legs caught up with his brain and he dashed forward, throwing his arms around the other nation.

"How long are you staying?" America demanded, and without waiting for an answer he pulled away to peer at the patties sizzling away in his frying pan. "Burgers too? You're the best, babe!"

The corners of Russia's mouth twitched up as he gently maneuvered America away from the stove. "I can stay the whole weekend," he said, "although if you have work you have to get done, there's a hotel—"

"No way! I gotta make the most of having you here," America protested.

"Then I'll stay." Russia landed a quick peck on his forehead. "Would you get out plates?"

"Sure thing." America rummaged through the drawers for a knife – he liked his hamburgers whole, but Russia usually cut his in halves or even fourths.

"By the way," Russia said as he was pulling three plates (one for Tony) out of the cabinet. "I like that—" here his voice trembled with a little with suppressed laughter, "that blanket you're wearing, it really—becomes you."

"Yeah, yeah," America drawled, sticking his tongue out at Russia's back. "I'll have you know this thing is insanely comfortable. And I mean obviously the design is perfect."

He could hear the smirk in Russia's voice. "A true fashion success, yes."

America cleared off the kitchen table and set down the plates. "I'll have France wearing one of these in no time, just you watch." He told Russia airily. His only response was a quiet bark of laughter. America harrumphed in mock indignation, a grin slipping helplessly onto his face. So far this was the best Friday he'd had in a long time.

Tony came down just as they were finishing up with dinner.

"Hey buddy, look, look who's here!" America waved excitedly at Russia, waiting for Tony to look even slightly surprised.

"I know," Tony told him evenly, "I let him in."

"But…" America began. He looked confusedly from Tony to Russia and back again, "but he has a key…"

"I was getting it out when the door opened. Into my face." Russia's voice was sugary sweet and his smile was far too wide to be believable. Tony muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, 'fucking commie'. The two stared each other down. America rolled his eyes; he felt like he was in an old Western or something.

"Chill, alright? Both of you." America eyed the two until Tony huffed and turned away. Russia's glare was redirected the tablecloth.

"So… Whatcha working on up there, Tony?" America asked, casting about desperately for a conversation topic.

Tony looked thoughtful as he helped himself to a burger. "I don't think I can tell you right now. It's still secret." At the word 'secret', Russia's ears seemed to perk up.

"If I can't know, you definitely can't." America told him firmly. Russia turned slightly pink in response, but really America couldn't blame him for the curiosity. As much as he loved Russia, there were certain aspects of their relationship that he knew were always going to be a little touch-and-go, and keeping their respective national secrets were one of those things. Not that Wikileaks was helping any.

"I'm going back up," Tony informed them. "You might want to turn your music up. There may be some loud noises from my project." America stiffened. He'd forgotten about the music that he'd put on earlier; it was fainter in the kitchen and faded easily into the background.

America glanced at Russia out of the corner of his eye, wondering if he'd caught Tony's reference. To his surprise he found Russia watching him with a knowing little smile on his face, elbow braced against the table and chin resting in his palm.

America felt himself flush scarlet. "Sooo… you heard that then."

Russia's eyes twinkled. "I did. And it seems you like Tchaikovsky, from what I heard when I came in."

Oh hell no. There was no way he was giving this one up without a fight. "Who now? That's just, y'know, my nap music."

For one solid moment he thought maybe Russia bought it. Then the other nation abruptly stood up. "Let's go see what other 'nap music' you have, shall we?"

"Nooo, no really, we don't need to do that." America hastened to follow Russia as he made his way to the living room and opened America's CD cabinet. "I mean, it's all… it's all boring…"

Russia hummed along to the stereo as he flipped through the CDs. "Oh yes, you must find these all very boring," he agreed pleasantly. "I see six — no, seven — CDs of Tchaikovsky's music."

"I—I take a lot of naps," America offered weakly, but he knew the jig was up.

"I'm sure you do," Russia said soothingly. He examined each of the discs in his hands critically. "Romeo and Juliet, the Nutcracker, Sleeping Beauty, string quartets… you don't have Swan Lake?"

"Matt borrowed it and never gave it back," America admitted. "That was ages ago, though; he probably lost it."

Russia frowned thoughtfully at the cases he was holding. "That's a shame. Swan Lake is one of my favorites."

America shrugged. "It's one of my favorites too, but what can you do?"

In an instant Russia's gaze had shot up to meet his. "So you admit you like Tchaikovsky?"

America huffed – but he was caught and he knew it. "Yeah, okay, I gue—"

"Tell me my composers are the best."

America gaped indignantly at him. "What? No way!"

"Why not?" Russia cocked his head to the side. "We both know it's true."

"I—you—no!"

"Say iiiiittt," Russia demanded in a sing-song voice.

"Oh, you're mature."

"Say it, say it, say iiiiiit—"

"Alright, alright, fine!" America gave in, flailing his arms about in a vain attempt to stop the chant. "Your composers are the best."

"What's that?" Smiles as wide as Russia's really ought to have been illegal.

"Your composers are the best."

"I can't hear you, Americaaa," By now Russia had moved in so they practically nose to nose; there was no way he couldn't hear.

"Your… composers are the best." Okay, okay, it was still embarrassing to say it out loud, but the real, genuine smile Russia rewarded him with made it seem worth it.

"Do you still a have a piano?" Russia interrupted his train of thought.

"Huh? Oh, uh, yeah." America led him out of the living room. "It's in my, uh—you know, it's a like a living room but more fancy?"

"The parlor," Russia supplied.

America grimaced. "Blegh, that sounds like something Artie'd have in his house, all snooty n' stuff. It's just a fancy living room." Russia shook his head as America opened the door to said 'fancy living room'.

"I haven't played in a while, so it probably needs to be tuned," he warned Russia as the other nation sat down.

Russia tapped a few of the keys experimentally. "You're right, it should be tuned. But it will do." He patted the bench. "Sit down."

America sat next to him, bemused. "So what are doing with my piano again?"

"Swan Lake," Russia said simply, as though that explained everything. "You know this one?" He played a few notes, watching America intently.

America frowned at the keys. "Yeah, sort of. I mean—it's hard to practice a duet by yourself, Vanya."

"I am sure you will pick it up," Russia said confidently, and started the piece again. America rushed to get his hands into position on the keys.

To America's surprise, he did pick it up fairly easily. After a few stumbles in the beginning, they played through the piece smoothly, their fingers working in tandem to coax a melody out of the old Baby Grand. America felt disappointed when finally they reached the last note, the sound quivering in the air before it too slowly faded.

It was Russia who broke the silence. "That went well. We should play together more often."

He was being charming, so America kissed him. "We should," he agreed when he had his mouth back to himself. "We make a pretty good team."

Russia laughed and tugged playfully on Nantucket. "So America," he began teasingly, "I think we've established that you like Tchaikovsky… but what are your feelings on Prokofiev?"