At first, watching is enough for Russia. He feels warm when he watches, unnoticed, a pair of nations give each other a secret smile or a soft look, when they hold hands. In fact, he doesn't ever really realize it at first, because watching is enough, watching makes him happy. He doesn't need a loving hug or kiss, like Spain bestows upon South Italy or North Italy on Germany, or a motherly stroke of the face like Hungary sometimes gives Austria. No, he'd do better without the sexual molestation France inflicts upon England, or even need the playful wrestling between Sweden and Sealand. He's perfectly happy just watching, and seeing someone else's joy at touch is enough for him. He'd probably mess it up, anyways.
One night, though, Russia finds himself his dark hotel room (alone, somehow he was the leftover when picking roommates again), left to watch television because there's nothing else to do. (It's strangely quiet, he's pretty sure that the other nations are having a party somewhere, as usual. He isn't certain – he wasn't told.) He leans back and watches a game show, evidently filmed some time ago, judging by the slight blurriness of the camera. He isn't really paying attention, but the pure silence that met him when he'd arrived had been unbearable. He blinks heavily, exhausted. The meeting had really tired him out, even though he hadn't spoken much. He'd still taken good notes and paid close attention – maybe the information would help him, or better, one of his alliances out later. He'd hardly spoken to anyone today, or even yesterday, for reasons other than politics, and his voice is hard with disuse. That's alright, though. He can still watch them smile and laugh and converse amongst themselves, and maybe pretend he's a part of it. That's good enough, right? He yawns, glances at the clock. It isn't too late, but, he supposes, he doesn't have a very good reason to be awake. Russia eventually just lets the sweet soft sound of human voices lull him to sleep. When he finally falls asleep, he falls immediately to a field of sunflowers, the plants stretching out in every direction around him. There's someone waiting for him there, shrouded in light. Russia can't tell who the person is, but something about them seems familiar. The bright person is laughing, a nice, happy sound. Russia observes, then, since nobody else is around, asks the person why they're laughing.
"Because I'm happy. We're here, together." The person is a man, but in Russia's sleep slogged brain, he can't place his identity.
"Us? You and me?"
"Yup. Doesn't it make you happy, too?" Russia is taken aback. He isn't sure how to respond. Nobody's been really happy to be around him before, at best indifferent. He knows that that's his fault. He knows that there isn't any good reason why his presence should make people happy (even if he wishes there were).
"Who are you?" The man laughs, and smiles a sweet smile just for him, though most of his face is still hidden. All of a sudden, the man leans close and wraps both arms around Russia, pulling him in for a comfortably tight embrace. Russia stiffens. Nobody hugs him. The sensation is strange, warm and soft and tingly. It makes him feel large and whole and strong, and when the man pulls away, he feels cold, wishes for more. He doesn't voice his desire, and the man still smiles. He takes a breath. The man smells like the sweetness of summer, of free, clear blue skies, the remains of fire. Russia swears he can still smell it long after he wakes up.
Soon, he finds himself aching, as though he's missing something. He starts out small, opening the door for the Italies. Unfortunately, they run away before he can even get a word out. Soon, he leans close behind England to read from his notes when he leads a meeting (leading England to scoff and demand he get his own, "bloody fool should come prepared", even though Russia has the whole thing memorized), and shakes hands with France when they agree on a treaty (France is better about it, because they're closer friends. Still, he pulls away more quickly than Russia has seen him do, seemingly involuntarily.). Each and every time, Russia feels a small burn and a tingle, like the embrace, but weaker. The effect is diminished somewhat by the other nation's reactions – they pull back immediately, like they've been burned, though nearly always unnoticing. Every time, Russia feels something dull throb in his chest, but ignores it. Only America doesn't flinch away when Russia experiments on him, though it may be residual stubbornness from the Cold War. Honestly, Russia doesn't care. From then on, he focuses his experiments on America.
One time, when the two are having an outing to promote friendship, scheduled by their bosses, Russia ends the event by hugging America. The embrace is exactly the same as he remembers from the dream, though this time, he embraces the other and America is stiff in his arms. When Russia pulls back, America is wearing an awkward, wooden grin, clearly displeased, and Russia leaves before he can make a fool of himself. It takes all of his willpower not to show his sorrow.
It's ok. He can still watch. He still has himself.
Sometimes Russia sees America try to catch his eye in meetings, or make his way over afterwards, but he ignores it. He doesn't want a repeat of what happened last time. In truth, he hasn't touched or embraced a single soul since that incident.
The dreams grow more vivid still, and the man keeps coming back to haunt him. The shroud is beginning to lift, and it shows golden blonde hair and shiny white teeth. Russia never remembers it well enough to place it in the morning.
Sometimes, it's a guilty pleasure of Russia's to let the man in the dream hold him and touch him. Make him feel loved. He refuses to acknowledge that he enjoys it, still wishes it would stop even when he goes to bed earlier and earlier to feel someone else. He lets the man stroke his face, hold his hand, and give him hugs, and he carefully stores away each feeling, every burst of pleasure that results. But, he finds that the more he wants it, the more detached the touches feel. Before long, Russia goes to bed hours before he normally would, but the feeling is hardly there - just an old memory. He ignores the dull emptiness he feels in the morning. It's alright. Watching is enough.
Eventually, America finally hunts him down.
"Russia! Hey there! Long time no see, huh?" Russia nods, but does not speak. "Look, there was something I wanted to talk to you about…" America's glances up at Russia, his eyes full of meaning. Russia meets them, fast as lightning. There is a question in his gaze.
"Alright." America nods and turns, grabbing Russia's hand as he does so. The action causes a tremble of shock to reverberate throughout Russia's body. Nobody had ever been the one to hold his hand before. America tugs him along. Russia is still slightly dazed from America's possession of his hand. Before he can ask where they're going, America has pulled him into an abandoned room. The younger nation turns and smiles.
"First things first – I'm sorry about that hug. I didn't mean to be so awkward, it's just, you've never hugged me, or I think anyone before, and, you know, I was startled. So. Secondly, I've been watching you recently, ever since you gave me that hug, Russia. I've seen the way you look at the other nations and I." Russia feels a tug at his hand. He looks down to find America tugging at his glove, already having pulled off both of his own.
"Wha-" Russia begins, but freezes when he sees a familiar smile.
"You poor thing. You should have just told me, you know. You don't make me uncomfortable or afraid; I would have given you what you needed." America works the glove off Russia's hand. Suddenly, America's warm, bare palm is in his own. Russia gasps at the feeling. America's skin is hot and soft, and the contact sends bolts of electricity through Russia's veins. He hardly notices as America starts to work his other glove off with the other hand. Before long, both of America's hands are in Russia's own, and the same warm soft strength he felt in the dream is there.
"A-America…" Russia meets the other's smiling gaze, which softens even more at Ivan's words.
"You've really never felt much like this before, have you? You just wait, there's so much I can show you. But first…" America draws both his hands away, leaving him cold, then leans in for a comfortably tight embrace. Russia smells the sweetness of summer, free, clear blue skies, and the remains of fire. He relaxes in America's grip, as the other nation works away his jacket and runs his hands through his hair.
It was you.
(A/N: Sorry everyone! I'm really busy right now, so I thought I'd put up an old fic that was on my computer. It's pretty unpolished, I don't think I ever edited or beta'd it. I just felt kind of bad not putting anything up for so long. So, as always, constructive criticism and improvement welcome! I might post up a better version later. Also, to all those from whom I've received a request, I'm working on it! Sorry!)