America's head pounded as he lazily rolled over. Mornings be damned; they weren't his thing. Sunlight streamed in from the window, the glow unwanted as America silently cursed the sun and pleaded for it to set quickly already. His body wasn't prepared to be amongst the living once more. He slept the sleep of the dead and, by the way his bones creaked and tendons twitched, his living form wasn't quite ready to join the leagues of the conscious either. Something was insistently stabbing at his arm, the soft spot between his shoulder and elbow, so persistently and painfully he couldn't help but blearily blink and stare at some shifting shape not two feet from him.
His gaze turned to the offending appendage jabbing at his flesh, glaring softly as the image blurred before coming into focus. An arm, a Russia, his house. Oh, shit.
"Morning," he groaned, rolling over. Turn his back to the world and nothing mattered. Ignorance was bliss. If I can't see him, he isn't here and it never happened. "Get me coffee."
He yanked the blanket up, over his arms and over his nose and nearly covering his eyes as he stared at the wall before him. Not the most pleasant of sights to gaze at, but his mind was already buzzing with a constant white noise of distorted thoughts, battling against one another for supremacy and the right to be heard. America didn't want to listen, forced himself not to, but he'd found running from himself was a fruitless effort. It brought nothing by self loathing and frustration.
Will break, currently breaking, had broken: he wasn't sure anymore. There was a distinct lack of self awareness, more so than usual. The urge to laugh tugged at him, took his lips and parted them. It shook his vocal cords until he buried his face in the blanket, smelling of plastic and grease and the scents of his bed fellows, and laughed until his throat felt raw and his body shook with an uncontrollable tremor. He wasn't even sure if Russia was still there but, so long as he laughed and didn't turn, it didn't matter.
What would Russia do anyway? Place a comforting hand perhaps, steal a quick kiss to his forehead or stroke the unwashed mat of hair atop his head? The images caused real laughter to bubble forth, a cascade of desperation and irritation he couldn't vent in any other way.
What if he just fell to the floor, unable to take any of it anymore? What would Russia really do? America wasn't entirely certain and enjoyed the thrill of not knowing.
Bitterness wafted into the room as America heard a muted thunk through his laughter. So, Russia had left and had just come back: perfect. Lurching forward, America pitched himself from the bed, legs tangled in the sheets. The blanket fell on top of him once more, the pillow falling somewhere beside his head. He continued laughing, sides already aching.
Russia knelt beside the young nation, leaning over him with one hand braced on the edge of his bed. A ghost of a smile situated itself on his lips as he stared irritably at America, voice taunt like a cocked bow, "If this is a ploy for attention, America, you certainly have it. You will stop making a fool of yourself now, da?"
America almost wanted to heed Russia's barely veiled command: almost. Not enough though as he unfurled from the ball like position he had adopted during his short descent from the bed to the floor. His hand shot out, catching Russia's shoulder and holding the material in a white knuckled grip. The other came out from the folds of the blanket, grabbing the others scarf and yanking him down. Russia tumbled, balance thoroughly shredded as his lips met America's in a clash of teeth and tongue as the nation attempted to devour his mouth while he flailed for some sort of purchase which he could use to push himself away with.
He almost felt like a toy as America allowed him enough leeway to grab hold of the mattress edge once more and pull away. With brow cocked and smirk playing across his lips, America breathed, "Come break me down."
Bury me, bury me, Russia. Do it.
"I am finished with you," Russia replied coldly, attempting to yank himself free from America's hold.
The man beneath him was having none of it, keeping Russia locked in place and at the mercy of where he would direct the man's body if he so chose to do so. Some times, America loathed his strength. It caused nothing but problems in sickly sweet moments of indulgence. Other times, the ability came in handy. This was one such occasion where America didn't feel the need to constantly control the over abundance of power coursing through him. He pulled Russia down once more, kissing and receiving no response. A growl of frustration ripped through his throat.
America began to wonder, as he twisted his hips to meet Russia's groin. Another "what if" in a sea of I don't knows and how and why, and a thousand other meaningless questions that would never receive an answer, and that was just fine with him. But, he pondered as he began rolling his hips, providing friction for both he and his apparently unwilling partner, what if their positions were switched? What if he was the one without control, blindly striking at anything in an attempt to worm away from wandering hands and hungry, half lidded gazes? Begging and begging for Russia to stop, stop, he didn't want this, he wanted to leave but having his words fall on deaf ears.
What would you do?
Loosening his grip once more, America watched with dull fascination as Russia's head shot up, body attempting to twist up and away from America's insistent actions. When the effort proved itself to be futile, anger bubbled up and began to awaken a portion of himself that Russia had learned to control, if only somewhat. Uncomfortable with his sudden lack of leverage and livid at his own weakness and inability to break free, Russia turned a scathing glare America's way, corners of his mouth twitching upward in a mockery of pleasantry.
He was bitter and tired, unused to caring and unwilling to endure it any longer.
"You said you wanted more. So what are you waiting for, America?" Russia calmly questioned, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes. "I'm not running from you. It is you who is running from me."
America stilled, becoming a deer as the rain began to pour. Unable to move, too stunned to jump and run and hide. Tension began to build, flooding his veins and turning flesh to stone. Gradually, the joints of his fingers began to pop as he released both Russia's coat and scarf. Staring unseeingly, America gazed up at Russia, already off in some far away place. He became a child in that moment, wide eyed and frightened and so very confused. It was painful to watch the cogs attempting to turn, the gears frozen and no answer coming forth as America struggled with himself to grip the situation and find some sort of concrete hold in a world of glass.
There was no need for Russia to break him, metaphorically or literally. Any semblance of wholeness America once possessed had been thoroughly shattered by the young nations own hands. He'd buried himself beneath six feet of lies and reassurances and repressed memories of times not far off and people now so, so, so far in the distance. Russia had said he was finished with him and America hadn't completely understood and, even now, as he watched Russia stand tall while he pushed at the floor and scrambled to his feet, he couldn't grasp the meaning. They hadn't been literal, couldn't have been literal, but the message buried within was lost on America.
Numbness became familiar over the years for America. He gradually cared less and grew impartial to things he knew, at one time, would have sparked something within him: determination, indignation, joy, anything. Lately, there had been nothing. So long as everything meant nothing then it soon became meaningless, lost in the pages of history and the memories of those once there until they passed. He didn't care now, not anymore even if he ever did, and so he was numb. When unfeeling, one cannot feel enjoyment of the sensation but, faintly, America thought he could feel a fluttering in his stomach as he calmly approached the windowsill and sat, facing the glass and staring out.
He looked himself in the eyes, scowl soon taking over his features. You're killing me. I'm killing me and this is pointless to think about and-
All he ever wanted was himself, his identity. Vaguely, through a haze of centuries past, he could recall someone else entirely that had had his eyes, his hair, his everything. Wind and sun and water and dirt and gravel and sand and trees and flowers, all the things he wished he could once more bleed into. He wanted to become the roots once more, take on the form of a wolf and cross endless forests of pine and birch and oak, until his feet ached and he was forced to rest under a blanket of stars. Something had happened though and the title of America slipped into his hands. Who he was slipped away. He hadn't been able to hold on to who he was, instead became what others wanted, and lost himself, lost everything.
Someone else entirely took the place of a once nameless spirit that roamed freely across a land yet unexplored. When he realized the loss of what he had been, it was already too late. Try as America had, and try he desperately did, Arthur could surely attest to that, he was unable to capture what had once been. The finality of it had nearly driven him mad.
Now, though, now he knew who he is really was inside. He had finally found himself and it left a bitter taste in his mouth and a resounding ache in his chest. The chance to fight for who he was had long passed and who he really was began to eat away at the will to carry on as if everything was alright. Perhaps that's when he began the free fall. America couldn't be sure. Nothing was sure anymore. Simplicity long ago fell to the wayside as intricacy took its place and the once distinct lines of right and wrong smeared into an imperceptible field of gray. Black and white no longer existed, only a flat field of shifting grays, steel and iron and concrete and smog and smoke.
Arms wrapped around his waist and unconsciously he scooted up the wide expanse of the wood sill, making room for the body that settled in behind him. Something in his face must have given his musings away. That or, and America certainly did entertain the thought, Russia had implanted some sort of mind reading device in his skull.
Barely breathing and looking out at a world he didn't recognize any longer, America leaned his back against Russia, finding the man to be shirtless, flesh connected with flesh. He went completely limp as Russia's hand snuck up the hem of his shirt, calloused fingers dancing across the sensitive skin of his belly. The touch was not gentle or caring or loving. The blunt edges of Russia's nails bit into his sides and dragged across his abdomen, roughly marking him and bringing his consciousness back to the present. Another hand slipped beneath the waistband of his boxers, feeling and coaxing in an impersonal fashion.
"Ah," America breathed, cocking his head to the side as he buried his face in the crook of Russia's shoulder in order to stifle any other unwanted noise from pouring out. It had been too long since he indulged his more primal of needs.
He had already broken himself but, maybe, Russia could completely smother the remains, burying him beneath so much nameless debris that he would eventually come back to himself. Push far enough, fall deep enough, complete the cycle and once more, maybe, maybe, maybe, he could return to the beginning and assume his position as sister to the sun, brother to the wind, and child of the land. He was finished with himself, wanting not only who he was but perhaps someone entirely different.
Hand shaking, America wriggled in Russia's grasp and scooted forward. With fingers trembling, from anticipation he would always insist, he worked at Russia's pants in an attempt to free the growing bulge pressing into his back. Success did not come immediately and America grit his teeth, attempting to control the spastic movements of his hands. Finally, a snap sounded through the still air of America's bedroom and he knew his prize was close at hand. Reaching into Russia's pants, he freed the man's obvious arousal and delivered a few teasing strokes.
Using the wall as leverage, he pushed himself flush against Russia's chest and lifted himself up. His head turned, looking at Russia only to see Russia looking at him. You're killing me, one said. All I wanted was you, another said. Neither could tell who meant what and both agreed to disregard whatever wordless conversation had just passed between them as America carefully lower himself down.
It burned and it ached, sending jolts of pain reverberating up and down his spine until he eyes screwed shut and he could only lower himself further and further until there was no where else to go. Russia's arms came around his middle once more, silently requesting that America stay still if only for the moment and allow them both a moment to adjust. The sensations were overpowering, transcending reality and lifting them up only to let them tumble back down into flesh and bone and blood and tissue. From angels to demons to humans again and again and again.
For once, America agreed to the request and, with one hand pressing against the glass and the other gripping Russia's knee, he breathed, in out in out, until he lifted his hips. It hurt. America had been a part of wars before, choosing to run with his men through the forests of France and dunes of Iraq. There had been pain those times, from bullets and bombs and the sweltering heat of Vietnam's summers, and the unforgiving cold of Yugoslavia's winter. This, this intimate sort of agony took on an entirely different porn. It pierced deeper than his earthly body and struck a cord somewhere that wasn't here.
"More," America demanded of Russia, of himself, as he lost rhythm and slammed his body down. The hands on his hips assisted in launching him upward as Russia's hips snapped up, attempting to keep in time with some beat America had yet to hear.
Russia complied with the request, taking whatever could have been confused as love making or human and twisting it into something purely animal and wholly decadent. America wasn't ready for anything deeper than the connection of need and need. Russia knew this and, though he so sorely wished to disobey and thoroughly shatter America by forcing tenderness upon the nation, complied. An unnameable power had been put into his hands, not meant to be used but rather to test.
He could hardly control himself any long as coherent thought fled. Russia was rutting against him like a dog in heat and America gladly reciprocated the gesture, moving clumsily as his body thrummed with a need for release. No more waiting. He slammed his body back down, completely sheathing Russia within his body, before he was hoisted up once more only to repeat the action. No more running. Pressing his back to Russia's chest, America raked his teeth across Russia's throat, grazing the man's pulse and biting into his flesh.
What if - what if - what if - what if -
The end came too soon for America as he sunk down once more and tore into Russia's shoulder, all teeth and instinct, to stifle his scream. A wave of heat consumed him, stole his vision away, and the world became entirely silent as he was pulled up and forcefully yanked back down by a bruising grip on the junction of his pelvis and thigh over and over and over again until Russia began fighting for air and pressed his face into America's shoulder blade, biting through his lip to keep quiet as he tumbled over the edge.
Sighing and opening his eyes, belatedly realizing he had closed them, America stared out the window and pushed the what ifs from his mind. There would be time later to think on those. For now, with Russia still buried within him and his mind blissfully at rest, America could lounge against Russia, and think of nothing and pray Russia didn't plan on moving anytime soon because he certainly wasn't.
A/N: . . . Don't kill me. Please. It SAYS, right on my profile, that I'll still be updating shit. It's just gonna be, you know. So incredibly slow I may as well not even bother but I'm stubborn and going to anyway. So, don't throttle me. I am trying. Drama of all ridiculous sorts and classes have been kicking my ass into submission despite my best efforts to ward both off. Kinda hard when you're being gang raped by drama and school. Yeeeep. Anyway, here ya go. I got busy, wrote it. My beta got busy, a friend edited it. I cannot for the life of me remember her username. (Forgive me, sweetie. orz) The song is The Kill by 30 Seconds to Mars. There's poorly written smut. Uh, read, review, I should stop babbling.