A/N: You're all gonna hate me. But I hope the fluffiness in part of this chapter still keeps you reading. Enjoy!
America had immediately bolted out of Russia's grasp at the mention of hot chocolate. Russia, being older and calmer, had gotten up slowly, carefully folding the blanket on the arm of the couch. His joints creaked slightly and he rolled his neck to loosen it, inwardly cursing his age. He sure didn't look old, but he felt it. In the morning, he'd roll out of bed and feel his knees pop, his shoulders would be stiff until he'd taken his shower, and he regularly needed Alfred's strong arms to help him release tension in his back. Mostly, the obvious ageing was in the morning or after he'd been sitting for a long time. He knew it was normal, but he often envied his Fredka's boundless energy. Not that he'd ever tell America that.
"Vanyaaa, where's that mix?" America shouted from the kitchen. Russia heaved a deep sigh and shuffled tiredly to the kitchen to remind his sunflower that he made his hot chocolate by hand with milk, sugar and chocolate, not from a mix.
"You are so lazy sometimes, da. There should be a block of baker's chocolate somewhere in the pantry. Get me the sugar while you are at it," he said, opening a cupboard and bending to get the pot he used for hot chocolate. He straightened up with a slight groan. His damned back had locked up in the few seconds he was bent over. He tried to get rid of the uncomfortable feeling by rotating his spine and bending backward in a stretch, but the slight pain refused to dissipate.
"Черт подери..."
"Hm?" America turned around, bag of sugar in one hand, block of chocolate in the other. "Your back again?"
Russia nodded wordlessly, grimacing a bit as he stretched his arms over his head. "It locked for a second when I went for my cocoa pot. It's still painful, da."
America put the chocolate and sugar on a nearby granite counter. "C'mere, old man," he said. "Your hero here will fix it for ya!"
"M'not old, Fredka..." mumbled Russia as he let America envelop him in a bone-crushing hug. "I just feel old, d-OW!" he yelped as America hugged him just tight enough to clear up whatever was going on in his back.
"спасибо, Fredka. Much better, da." Russia smiled and poured the liter of milk into the pot. He turned his stove on high and added some sugar, stirring the pot gently.
"You should probably wait until the milk actually warms up, y'know..." America said as he smirked at Russia. "I'm much more interesting than a pot of boring dairy."
Russia turned his gaze from the pot of milk. "Da..." He gave a little giggle. "You're also much more attractive."
America blushed. "Psh. You're just saying that."
"Nyet, you are!"
"Prove it."
Russia looked incredulous. "I love you, Alfred. You know this, da. Why do you want me to prove it now? I've done it before!"
America pouted, tears pooling in his baby-blues. Back when he was a colony, he'd learned to make himself cry so he could get things he wanted from England. Russia knew this, but America knew his fake tears act was impossible for the Russian to ignore.
Sure enough, Russia's brows knit together and he engulfed America in a bearhug, Russian-style. America grinned against the fabric of Russia's coat, inhaling the scent that was solely Russia's, the scent of sunflowers, cold air and vodka. With a nice helping of manly musk on the side as well, he thought. Russia always smelled nice to him. Said country proceeded to tilt up America's face, not noticing the fake tears were gone, and kiss the slightly smaller country full on the mouth.
"Mhhm..." America managed to make the noise just before Russia licked his bottom lip, effectively doing two things: shutting America up and starting a langorous makeout session. Russia rarely kissed America like this, sweet and slow with attention to detail. More often kisses were quick and to the point, and regularly quite rough. When Russia kissed America with an intent to turn the blonde into a shuddering pile of goo, he kissed like he knew it could be their last one.
It never failed to make America much more compliant and agreeable.
They stood locked together in Russia's kitchen for almost two minutes, hardly noticing that the milk on the stove had begun to bubble; America, the perpetual teenager, was still ruled largely by his hormones, and Russia enjoyed taking advantage of America's one-track mind. Finally Russia pulled away to cath his breath and noticed the bubbling pot. Keeping one arm where it had been, around America, he broke off several pieces of chocolate with one hand, dropped them into the milk and added more sugar. America had gone quiet, the lingering langour of the rare kiss being the only thing keeping him from pulling Russia back around.
Well, that and a love of anything chocolate.
"Vanya?" America said, poking one of Russia's cheeks.
"Hm? Oh, Fredka, not now! I'm almost done with the cocoa!" Russia said, stirring the pot one-handed. America didn't reply, instead choosing the run his fingers up Russia's jaw, leaning his head close to kiss his way after his finger. Russia shuddered when America bit lightly on his earlobe, leaving light pink marks behind as he nibbled back towards Russia's mouth.
"You won't get your hot chocolate if you keep doing that, дорогой."
America smirked and licked his lips impishly. "And neither will you if you keep talking in that sexy commie language."
"..." America frowned, realizing his mistake.
"...I'm not communist anymore, Alfred."
Russia unwound his arm from America's middle and turned his back, busying himself with getting out a pair of mugs and making sure the chocolate was melted completely into the milk.
"Ivan, I know you're not Communist anymore. It just...popped out. That word."
"What, 'commie'?"
"Uh...yeah. Commie. That one."
" боже мой, Fredka, one would think you would be over that time period by now," Russia glanced back at the American as he placed the used pot in the sink and grabbed the large mugs of cocoa. The white one was slightly larger than the brown one, and Russia handed it to America, walking back towards the living room, the couch and the window. He sat back on the couch, carefully balanced his mug on his knees, and yanked off his gloves with his teeth.
America stood in the kitchen, slightly dumbfounded. Great. One slip-up and I'm standing here all aroused with no way to fix it. America glared southward. At least Florida hasn't reacted to those goddamn hormonal hurricanes yet. But I'm all hot and bothered! Fuck! He barged out of the kitchen and plopped down on the couch as close to Russia as the larger man would allow. Which wasn't as close as America wanted. He was a good three inches farther away from the Russian than he wanted to be, and he tried to scoot closer. Russia gave up and let him do it, mind racing.
Strange, da, He thought, sipping his cocoa. Usually I don't mind him calling me a commie on accident. Sometimes I have him do it on purpose, after all. The warmth of America's leg touched his own, but he ignored it. I wonder what it is about today that has me so sensitive to that word. He looked down as America laid his head on Russia's lap.
"Мне очень жаль, Vanya."
Russia had an urge to clean out his ears. If he hadn't seen America's lips move (and heard the horrendous accent), he woudn't have though his lover had spoken.
"что? Fredka? Was that...Russian?"
"Da." America smirked up at Russia. "You can't expect me to not pick something up. Plently of people who speak Russian live in America. I understand most languages to a degree, and I can speak a few. I'm far more fluent in Spanish than Russian, though."
"You're also with me a lot, da."
"True. Did I ever mention your accent turns me on?"
Russia smirked. "I do not know vhat you are talking about, Frredka." He deliberately let his accent thicken like it naturally would if he didn't try to control it, rolling the r in 'Fredka' around in his mouth like it was a delicious treat.
"Well it does. Anyway, why did you get so closed-up just now?"
Russia glanced at the mug of chocolate in his hands. "I don't know, da. But you have seemed like something was bugging you lately. Perhaps some part of me thought you were...having second thoughts."
America, whose hot chocolate had been placed on the coffee table, snorted loudly. "Pssh, no! I've been with you since 2013, you ass. I've had plenty of time to call it off, and did I? Fuck no."
"Then what is it that has been bothering you? You've been very jumpy, and I noticed you had a nightmare last night. One of the silent ones where you start stealing all the blankets rolling around."
"Why the fuck didn't you wake me up if you knew I was having a nightmare?"
"You stopped twisting around before I could act on the thought. It was nearly two in the morning!"
"What's that gotta do with it?"
"I was half-asleep myself, da." Russia gently lifted America's head off his lap and made Alfred sit up. The American leaned his head on Russia's shoulder, holding his cocoa mug and looking down at it.
"This could use a couple marshmallows. And whipped cream. I want whipped cream."
"What's bothering you, дорогой?"
"Nothing..."
Russia frowned. "Моя любовь, you are lying. Or at least stretching the truth, da. Something's been bugging you for a while now, and if I was wrong about it before, I don't have a guess as to what it is now."
America took a silent drink of his cooled cocoa. Russia did the same, watching his sunflower out of the corner of his eye. Finally, America sighed, placed the cup down, and turned to Russia.
"It's him."
October 1860-New York General, New York, New York.
America's mind was foggy, his limbs were heavy, his mouth dry as bone. He was immobile, thanks both to the bandages wrapped around his middle and the brown leather braces on his legs. He lay in the hospital bed, unable to do anything about the turmoil his country had been going through for the past few months. As he lay, silent and blank, a nurse walked in, trickled some water into his open mouth and gently tried to wake him.
"Mr. Jones," she whispered, "Mr. Jones, the President is here to see you."
America stirred slightly, blearily opening his normally electric blue eyes. They were clouded and vague, seeing things that were so far away he didn't even know if they were real.
"M-Mr. Lincoln," He ground out, his voice raspy with disuse. The man who had entered behind the nurse was tall and thin, dressed in a black suit and carrying a stovepipe hat in one hand. A beard didn't disguise his kind smile, and his brown eyes twinkled with some undefinable power.
"Relax, Alfred." Lincoln placed his hat on a nearby table and sat in the chair next to America's bed. " The Union has plenty of fight left in it, I see. "
America grinned slightly. "More fight every day, sir."
"How is your wound?"
"Sore, sir, but I get to have the stitches out in a week. It's more the mental toll right now."
"I see. Are you up to a talk?"
America managed a weak smile. "Sure, sir. I need to use my voice b'fore it dies on me, don't I?"
Lincoln smiled. "You most certainly do, Alfred. I have a question regarding the...Confederacy."
America flinched violently at the word.
"But if it hurts, we can do this another time, Alfred."
Alfred shook his head slightly. "N-no sir, you need to know."
"I would most certainly like to know how you got into this state, that's certain!" said Lincoln, anger flashing briefly in his eyes.
America close his eyes. "He came out of nowhere, sir. I'm minding my own business here at home in the city, and this guy who looked exactly like me just appeared at my door. His hair was reversed and his eyes were really dark, but he made me feel like I was looking in a mirror. A dirty mirror, but still a mirror."
"Who is this man?"
"The Confederacy. He must've been around for a while, hiding and growing stronger, sir, because he managed to do all this damage." America tried to gesture down at himself, hissing as his shoulder, which was bandaged, stretched.
"Don't injure yourself further, son!"
"M'fine..." America hissed out. "ANYWAY. He kinda stared at me for a second, and then he said 'Hey. I'm Avery.' Just, you know, casual. Next moment he was right next to me with a knife in my shoulder. He took Texas!"
America's eyes welled with tears. "And not just Texas! Virginia, North and South Carolina, Alabama, Louisiana-"
Lincoln put a hand over America's mouth-gently, but enough to shut him up. "Believe me, I'm well aware of which states chose to secede."
"Sorry. It's a nation thing..." America set his jaw, wishing he could move a little more. "At first I was really confused, and then I noticed my shoulder. I would've screamed if he hadn't grabbed my neck with his other hand."
It was true. The President could see the horrendously purpled bruises on America's neck, though they were already less vibrant than they had been.
"He tried to kill me, but...he couldn't, I mean, I'm here, yeah?" America frowned again. "This totally ripped me apart. I mean, look at me!" The bed creaked. "Honestly, sir, I'm surprised he didn't kill me and I'm afraid there might be no way to get my southern states back."
Lincoln put a hand on America's good shoulder. "We will. We will."
"How?"
"Perhaps you could try calling on some of your fellow nations for aid?"
"Ah...maybe...Could you write for me? I can't really move my writing hand..."
"Of course, Alfred!" Lincoln said, taking a pen from his pocket. "Who shall we write to?"
America thought hard for a moment. "England. Then France. Then...uh...Russia."
"Russia?"
"He...he could help. He's strong. He's been in parts of my territory before."
Lincoln coughed and pretended not to notice the blush spreading on his country's cheeks. He knew it was different for nations, though Alfred was certainly one of the more innocent.
"Very well. We'll write to England, France and Russia."
Present Day
"Avery? That is impossible."
"Naw," said America. "He's still alive, kinda. He's a part of me I'll never be able to destroy. All I can do is keep him from getting stronger."
"If he breaks free, I shall kill him, da."
America glared at Russia. "You would never."
"Why not?" Russia questioned. "It is not as if I haven't killed before." He began to grow dark-voiced again. "I must crush anyone who threatens making me happy. Avery prevents you from being happy, and so I am not happy. I should crush him like the insignificant bug he is, da."
America poked Russia hard in the side. "I said no, dammit. I can deal with him. He's never strong enough to break away. He doesn't even have the balls to try. Just drop it, I've been having some nightmares and inner arguments. That's all."
Russia put down his empty mug. and looked at his watch. "It's only ten o'clock in the morning. What do you want to do all day?"
America didn't question Russia changing subjects so fast. It was how the larger country dealt with anger. He would change the subject off his object, then release his anger via either hunting, fighting or sex.
"Uh...I have paperwork my boss faxed over to do, so I'll let you know by lunch."
"Da." Russia got up and exited the room. "I will be outside if you need me."
America waited for a few minutes. When he heard gunshots echoing off the walls of the house, he peeked out the window. Sure enough, his Eurasian lover was holding a shotgun and taking aim at a flock of birds. He watched Russia bring down a large bird, then left to do his paperwork.
That night, Russia worked so hard to please his American that he barely avoided collapsing on top of him. Still, even all his hard work couldn't stop America's memories from returning.
Across the Atlantic, a group of Alabama teenagers hoisted the Confederate flag as the Stars and Stripes burned behind them. Thirty miles out of Moscow, a blond American screamed in the arms of his Russian lover, who tried everyhing he knew to stop nightmares.
They failed.
A/N: CLIFFHANGER! Yes, I am a bitch sometimes. Please don't hate me and don't worry, Alfred will be okay. He has Ivan after all. Please review! Thank you!
Черт подери-God damn it
спасибо-Thank you
дорогой-Dear
боже мой-My God
Мне очень жаль-I'm sorry
что-What
Моя любовь-My love
Whew! Lot of translations in this chapter XD Next Chapter: Past Shadow, Present Nightmare