Last one, guys, it's been fun!
Title: Sharp-Dressed Man
Prompt: Costumes
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Basically Russia thinks America looks hot in a suit.
The prompt was "costumes", but it strikes me that a suit is also a kind of costume, wouldn't you say?
"I hate these things," America complained.
Russia pulled his tie into a loop with the soft whrrsh of silk on silk and studied it critically. His fingers skidded up the length of the fabric, smoothing it, and he tugged it a little to the right to center it on America's collar.
"They're just so stuffy," America continued, letting Russia fuss over him. "I mean, I didn't like it when England made me wear them, why would I like them now?"
"I think they look handsome on you," Russia said as he folded America's collar down crisply over the jacket. His thumb skidded out briefly to stroke along America's neck.
America shivered a little involuntarily. "Well, hey, thanks—I mean, they look banging on you too—I just wish we didn't have to wear them all the time, you know? I mean, my bosses didn't used to care what I showed up in as long as I did my thing—hell, half the time in the 60's I'd be stoned with, like, fricking daisy wreathes in my hair and my bell-bottoms plastered to my ass and LBJ was just, 'don't make a habit of this, Alfred'—"
Russia chuckled a little as he smoothed down the front of America's jacket. Actually, America was pretty sure that his jacket couldn't get any less wrinkled if Russia were taking an iron to it, but hey, if he wanted to pretend he was doing something other than feeling America up, that was cool.
"I'm sorry I missed that particular get-up," Russia told him. America groaned in exasperation as he pulled out a handkerchief and tucked it into the jacket's pocket.
"Seriously, Russia? Jeez, what the hell is up with you Europeans and handkerchiefs?"
"This is an important meeting. And it looks nice," Russia informed him, tugging the edges of the fabric out just a bit. "Besides, this is not the worst thing you could be wearing."
"I guess," America sighed, "I bet you've had to wear some pretty crazy stuff, anyway."
"You have no idea…" Russia muttered, apparently satisfied that America's suit was perfect. His hand came to rest on America's shoulder. "The court outfits always itched."
"Speaking of things we'd like to see…" America trailed off. He remembered the first time he'd met Russia, his imperial navy uniform crisp and dashing. It was sequestered deep in Russia's closet now, along with several other articles of clothing that America could only assume held sentimental or historical significance for him. America would have loved to see Russia in it again—if only so he could take it off of him. Speaking of which—
"Hey, hey, I thought were putting on our clothes, not taking them off." The jacket that Russia had fussed over so much was suddenly unbuttoned, and the tie that was so carefully knotted was being loosened. Russia leaned in and pressed his forehead to America's, hands running down his shirt.
"We have time," he murmured against America's mouth, his tongue darting out to lap at America's lower lip, "And it really does look good on you."
"O-oh?" America managed. He was a little too caught up in staring into Russia's eyes to come up with a good response.
"Mmhmm." The shirt was carefully slipped off his shoulders and draped over the back of a chair.
"I, uh, I guess they're not really so bad then," America admitted, and that was the end of it.
Until after the conference, that was, when America caught Russia staring at him as he patted down the back of his dress pants and straightened his jacket. And if he exaggerated the process just a little bit for effect, he was pretty sure Russia wasn't making any complaints.