A/N: Hey everyone! Sorry for the long wait, but I was battling my ADHD because I'm literally reading five books and writing like three fanfictions at the same time. AND trying to learn how to play guitar. Gah. Anyways, enjoy! US/UK slash inbound :D
The motorcycle rumbled along the moonlight-illuminated dirt path, a thick coniferous forest stretching on either side of the speeding and sputtering vehicle.
"Hey, Austria!" the short, blond man turned his goggled head sideways and called over the roar of the motorbike's engine.
Roderich, bent forward slightly to be more aerodynamic, yelled back, "We're almost there, but I can still gag you up if you start talking!"
"But, like, I just wanted to say - " the Pole yelled, "Thank you!"
The Austrian took his eyes off the road briefly and turned his head to face the man beside him, "What!"
"Like, during the partitions. Since 1795. Prussia and Russia totally gave me hell in the East and the West… but you, like, let southern Poland thrive. You didn't burn libraries, or like, demolish our castles. And I just wanted to, like, say 'thanks', bromosapiens!"
Roderich turned his head, facing the road again. Utterly baffled, he said, barely audibly, "No problem…" and from that point his perception of the seemingly whiny, weak blonde changed completely.
.
.
The Italian's facial expression changed gradually from a shocked "O" to the complete reciprocal of a grin as the frontline situation was slowly uncovered to him. The tattered and battered Austrians and Germans, perhaps no more than a platoon strong, were fighting against two companies of British and American soldiers – almost 160 fresh, healthy and well-equipped soldiers with full rationpacks and ammo clips. And leading those Germanic-lunatics-who-just-won't-give-up was none other than the love of the Italian's life; his muse, his savior and the man who completed him.
He jumped up from his seat, knocking over a bottle of wine and he grabbed the Austrian's uniform, and commenced shaking him violently back and forth, "I need to go there! Now!"
"F-Feliciano, calm down," gulped the Austrian, his glasses falling down his nose as he was tossed around harshly. He paused for a moment until the panting Italian let go of the folds of his coat, and said, "Ludwig specified you should stay here, in Italy, safely. Also, you need to watch over Feliks."
The Pole rolled his eyes and muttered, "I think I preferred the cellar over this," as he inspected the messy hovel which smelled of cats rather strongly.
"But I have to see Ludwig!" the Italian was yelling desperately, throwing his fists in the air and gesticulating wildly.
Austria turned away from Feliciano, pushed his glasses up and massaged his temples lightly. He then whispered to Feliks, who was standing close by, "You need to watch over him more than he does over you. Make sure he eats, and make sure he doesn't leave Italy. Please. Please, Feliks." Roderich pleaded, a rather pitiful, apologetic expression on his face. He turned back around and put his strong hands on the Italian's shoulders, and after a long sigh, said, "Please just stay, Feliciano. Do it… do it for Ludwig, for fuck's sake. It's all he cared for, you know? He just wants you to be safe, dummkopf. It's the only thing he wants more than to be with you. So just… stay. Please."
Feliks' eye-roll was almost audible, but Feliciano appeared quite convinced. With a load of sighs and sad Veee~'s he sat down, and was left alone with the Pole as Roderich turned on his heel and left out the door, muttering a quick goodbye and saying that he needs to get back to the battlefield as soon as possible. Feliciano still had his head buried in his hands when the Austrian's motorcycle vrooomed to life outside, and then the engine sounds grew fainter as he sped back off to the frontline.
Feliks moved towards a chair and sat opposite of the Italian, his chains rattling noisily as he slumped into a seat with an aggravated expression. Feliciano kept whimpering and sobbing, the noises getting increasingly louder, until the Pole slammed his bound hands on the dirty, Bolognese-stained, once-brown table and screamed, "Put yourself back together, ty mały skurwysynie! This might be, like, a bit hypocritical, but stop being such a whiny little faggot! You have to fight, kurwa! Sobbing like a bitch totally won't help with anything!"
Feliciano looked up at the blonde in front of him with red, puffy eyes and wiped his nose on his sleeve. He looked at the green eyes intently and, mystically, some of the Pole's rebellious nature and defiant attitude seemed to seep from the two emerald pools into the Italian's deep, umber eyes. Feliciano's eyebrows moved together and he straightened his back.
After another long pause he said, quietly, "You're right."
"Um, I know?"
"I'm going," Feliciano said, standing up, banging his knee on the table again, knocking over another bottle of wine. "Now."
Feliks nodded, thinking, "Maybe this poorly-dressed faggot isn't, like, as lame as I thought? Given the right circumstances, he might even be, like, brave!"
"You don't know about this, Poland, but a good few weeks ago, me and Ludi were in a pinch. I got captured by France – "
"I know," Feliks butted in, "one of the German guards told me, back in Stuttgart."
"He didn't hesitate for a second to come and save me, Feliks. He could've easily died that night… and yet he went straight for me. I've ought to do the same, right? My grandfather was brave… I wish I were more like him!"
"You are him, partially," Feliks explained, "he lives in you. Sorta. And you're right, you owe Ludwig your life, so you better go and save his now."
"Yes!" the Italian exclaimed. "I'm leaving," he said, and stormed out the door, forgetting to put on his shoes or coat or pants.
"Wait up!" Feliks called after him and hopped out the door as well, his arms and legs still bound together by the heavy chains. "I'm coming too!"
"Why? I think I just kind of set you free," inquired the Italian as he walked through the empty street in Florence and entered the small shed next to his hovel. He disappeared inside for a few seconds and came back out pushing a beautiful, blue-finish Ferrari motorcycle. Feliks gawked his eyes at the incredible bike and sat down on it even before Feliciano did.
"I'm going with you because I hope somewhere, along the way, I'll get to kick Russia's ass. In any circumstances, as long as I see his gargantuan-nosed face bleeding."
The Italian nodded and revved the ignition and the two roared off into the darkness, disturbing the inhabitants of Florence by the load noise of an engine for the second time that night.
.
.
The sun was at its midday peak and despite days getting shorter and chiller, the interior of the dark green tent was ridiculously hot and stuffy. Arthur stood by a round table, waving a folded map of Germany at his face, trying to ventilate himself at least slightly.
"Bloody hell," he cussed, wiping his sweat-beaded forehead with a sticky sleeve, "does everything have to go fucking wrong today?"
"He was meant to be here an hour ago," grunted Alfred, making a half-hearted attempt to look at his wristwatch, but deciding it was way too much effort. He remained seated in the foldable, military chair, a few feet away Arthur. "You know, you wouldn't get that sweaty if your eyebrows didn't take up half of your face, you fugly British douchebag."
"Piss off, you fucking redneck! I'd kick your bloody face in, but I can't be arsed to shift."
Alfred's voice had a hint of annoyance in it at being called a redneck. "I'm sure you would, you little bitch!"
"Oh, you wanna go, wanker?" Arthur stood up and raised his fist, walking towards the seated American who immediately sprung up and swung his arm behind him, ready to punch.
"Yeah, let's go, you big pussy!" Alfred yelled, panting heavily, approaching the Brit haughtily until their sweaty foreheads were almost touching. He could see Arthur's big biceps flexing, getting ready to uncoil like a striking viper but –
"Bad moment, comrades?" a familiar, slightly nasal, warm voice rang out from near the entrance to the tent.
"Ivan!" they both exclaimed at the same time, standing up at attention.
"We were just… messing around a little!" Arthur explained, lowering his fist and clapping Alfred on the back rather strongly.
"Da, I don't doubt that," Ivan said, and took off his bowler hat and fake moustache, "I wish I hadn't had to put on that ridiculous disguise to get through Switzerland undetected. Agh. Anyways, why was I called all the way here?"
"Well," Alfred began, biting his lower lip tentatively, "we have good news and bad news."
"Hit me with your best shot, drugu."
"Well, the good news is we know how to win the whole bloody war," Arthur exclaimed rather enthusiastically, making the V-symbol with his hand, and then immediately regretting the effort, feeling really tired.
"Otlichnyĭe," the Russian nodded in approval, "but what is the bad news?"
"Well…. they drove us out of Stuttgart this morning." Alfred admitted and hung his head in shame.
"But – "
"We know," they said simultaneously, avoiding the Russian's disappointed frown.
"It's just, y'see, they took us by surprise!"
"We didn't even, like, know they have ammo anymore – "
"And where they got that bloody tank from, I cannot fathom – "
"And their crazy-ass leader took out a whole troop himself, I think – "
"I see," Ivan said, his violet eyes cool and totally unamused, and he reached into his chest pocket.
"NO!" The American and Brit both yelled, thinking the Russian was pulling out a gun, but he just looked at them, confused, and retrieved out a pack of 'Krasne' cigarettes. He lit one, inhaled, and then exhaled all the smoke in a long sigh. "Alright. Well, let's hear your brilliant plan to end the war instead, if you can't even win against a handful of Germans having a garrison of soldiers at your command," Ivan said, tapping the ashes off his cigarette onto the scribble-filled maps on the table.
"Well," Alfred began, "we realized that there's one common root in all the Axis victories. You know? France's death. The capture of Poland. Even today's morning victory here, in Stuttgart."
Ivan waited for further explanation, smoke escaping through his nostrils.
Arthur clarified, "It's Germany. If we want to win the war, we ought to kill Ludwig."
The Russian twirled his cigarette between his fingers, nodding to himself, apparently deep in thought. "Not bad. But any concrete plans made yet, eh?"
"Well, it's really pretty simple, Ivan. Look – all it takes is one sniper. One good shot at the head or the heart, one bullet through that Nazi dog's black, blood-pumping blob of muscles and – and victory is ours! The Austrian will be crushed, alone, and the Italian will just have a mental breakdown. Simple as that!"
Ivan extinguished his cigarette butt on the smooth surface of the table. He stood up, put on the bowler hat and attached the fake moustache onto the large space between his lips and wide nose, "O-K. I'll be back tomorrow to check on your… progress," he said, striding out of the tent, but not before looking back over his shoulder and barking, "Don't disappoint me."
The two made sure the Russian was far out of ear-shot and they both exhaled theatrically, Alfred laughing nervously to shake off some of the tension.
"I hate that guy," the American muttered.
Arthur laughed, but went serious a split-second later, "But now I'm going to chop your bloody bollocks off! Because of you, he almost shot us! You told him we got totally wiped out by the Germans – "
"But it's true, you dipshit! Are you blind? Maybe you can't see anything from underneath that forest above your fucking eyes!" Alfred retorted angrily, wiping sweat from his forehead, tossing his plastered fringe aside.
"Well, you didn't have to bloody tell him, you fuckin' genius! And leave my fucking eyebrows alone, you shithead!" Arthur snapped back, and approached the American, pushing him a little harder than he intended, making Alfred fall over onto the tent's grassy floor. He landed with a thud and tensed up immediately, springing back up and before Arthur could even react, he charged at him and threw him to the ground with a rough football dive.
The American was on top of the wriggling Englishman, and used the favorable position to punch Arthur square across the jaw. His head spun aside and his hit cheek turned blood red. The tension in the air was once again tangible, but this time instead of striking back, the Brit grabbed Alfred's pilot coat and pulled him down to his face, and before any objection could be made, his lips were upon the American's and he kissed him passionately.
Alfred F. Jones reluctantly pulled away for air, and when he did, he whispered, "You fucking sexy faggot,"
"Shut up," Arthur said, and squeezed Alfred's butt cheeks with his free hand. The American's hips bucked and he dove back onto the Brit's lips, parting his lips and feeling his electrifying saliva mix with his own, as their tongues collided in a maelstrom of passion. Jones attempted to unbutton the British uniform before him, but could barely do it being so distracted with the amazing kiss.
After some fumbling around, both of their uniforms were slipped off and tossed aside, their now-bare, muscular chests colliding with one another as the two bodies clashed together, sweaty in the afternoon haze. When the two pulled away to breathe again, the English lips were all upon Alfred's nipple without a second of hesitation, making the American moan a deep, guttural sound, as a feeling of immense pleasure swelled all over his body, making him have to compose himself as not to come right then and there.
Alfred pushed the Englishman roughly onto the ground and placed a few kisses on his strongly chiseled chest while his hands worked magic on his bulging, black trousers.
"Oh, fuck," Arthur gasped, his legs rising from the ground and wrapping themselves around his back, "keep going, you fucker,"
Alfred wrestled the dirty, brown boots from the man's legs and then tore the trousers off the Englishman's legs and tossed them away quickly, so he could marvel at the sight before him. He grabbed hold of his member instantly, and licked it teasingly, from the base of his shaft, all the way up to the head.
"I'm gonna suck the shit out of your British cock," Alfred said, his hot breath pouring down onto the erect organ before him, and licked his lips slowly. Arthur just moaned loudly, arching his back and thrusting into the hot air, his eyes rolling back with pleasure. Just then, Alfred's lips were upon his member, and soon the Englishman was thrusting against the inside of the American's chubby cheeks. The tempo of the act increased steadily, Arthur slowly losing all control and falling into a state of deep ecstasy, feeling like he was a huge icicle being melted by a powerful blowtorch. He was pulled out of the perfect world when suddenly the blowtorch was switched off. He opened his eyes and saw Alfred taking his pants off, his member popping out of the moist trousers.
The Englishman rose to his knees and the two were now engaging in full body contact, their wet, hard members gliding against one another, and soon the American's large, coarse hand grabbed both of them and began stroking them up and down, the friction creating mind-blowing sensations for both of the men. The Brit bent down slightly and outstretched his tongue, caressing Alfred's nipple with the hot, moist organ, making him swing his head back in pleasure and gasp loudly. The American quickened the pace at which he was working on the two members and, with his left hand, he squeezed and rubbed Arthur's ass. It was all too much for the Brit who creased his forehead and let out a loud, primal grunt as the fiery heat engulfed his loins and he exploded in the American's hand.
Arthur was still panting when Alfred flipped his sweaty body over and began probing his backside with his fingers. "Just fuck me, would you?" the bottom moaned, half-spent, on all fours. The American did not need any more encouragement and, upon positioning himself behind the Englishman, and moistening his own cock, he thrust his throbbing member into the Brit's hole, making him cry out loud. His fists clenched the grass before him as he felt himself being filled up by Alfred. After a few quick thrusts, though, the cries turned into deep moans and the Englishman soon found his knees grating against the rough terrain below him and the two rocked in the rapid rhythm Alfred was setting. Arthur felt all the nerves in his prostate stimulated in a storm of strong eruptions as the American came inside him in a glorious, ecstatic finish.
Jones rolled down from atop the British bloke and lay panting on the grass, looking at the tent's sage-green canopy above him. After a few moments, Arthur pounced onto him, fired by energy which he had just inexplicably somehow found, and with two strong, muscular arms he pinned the American down to the ground by his shoulders.
"3, 2, 1," he counted down, "I win."
"I hate you,"
"Love you too, darlin'."