"How're things going with China and Europe?" America asked casually.

He was leisurely cleaning a 92FS, making sure the metal gleamed and the gun looked spotless. The gun was handled with such tenderness while a sort of nostalgia worked its way across his face. Violent conflict was not something foreign to the nation. He had been involved in too many wars, too many skirmishes, too many fights. It had become a dull comfort. Holding a gun, leveling the sight, pulling the trigger. For America, there was nothing better.

Russia was tending to his M14 almost as lovingly - if not mechanically. A hand slipped across the barrel, sliding easily across the cool, dark metal before it came to rest across the trigger. His violet gaze was leveled at America after a moment. Just staring. Just studying. There was a soft blankness behind the gaze before an all too familiar quirk of the lips left Russia looking childishly frightening. The look no longer unsettled America. He had grown used to it.

"I can assure you, comrade, he is not fairing well."

America snorted and rolled his shoulders, trying to will away the tension lingering there as he hunched further over the unloaded pistol, "'S 'cause North Korea is helping you."

Their eyes met. One dull and dark, the other bright and playful. Any other time, America would have laughed at the irony. He could find no will nor humor to laugh now, though. There was only a bitter hatred towards those he had once considered friends. In the hypnotic pull of World War III, he had found his friends to be enemies and enemies to be friends. It was horrendously twisted and made his stomach churn with the familiar ache of betrayal.

The pair were seated in a seedy hotel in Iowa, weaponry laid out against the wall beside the door and spread out across the mattress. After the initial shock of the east shore bombings, the American government officials had been easily moved to the Midwest to be tucked away in a sheltered small town. The move had been relatively smooth but he still ached to be in D.C. and wander the streets to gaze at the monuments.

America set the pistol down before flopping back with hands folded behind his head and one leg tucked beneath himself. His voice came out soft, almost gentle in the quiet of the hotel room. "How'd this happen?"

It was Russia's turn to shrug as he continued smiling, "It was to be expected. Nations are prone to war, it is the nature of things."

Another snort from the American as he turned his head towards the white wash walls and just stared. And stared. And stared. When he spoke again, the tone had changed, shifting back to the normal arrogant air that always seemed to hang upon his words, "What the fuck ever. More important question - how'd France and England team up? Talk about weird."

"How did we team up?"

The reply had been automatic on Russia's part. He set the rifle aside and stood from his chair before lightly pattering over and sitting on the edge of the bed. A prodding finger urged America to roll over and stop hogging the bed. Grudgingly and with a whine of protest, the nation complied and rolled onto his side, back facing Russia. The larger nation reclined against the head board, ankles crossed and hands folded in his lap, as he looked over at his partner with a sort of sick fondness.

He could feel the stare and didn't need to turn over to see it. The feeling was tangible. "Stop staring, asshole."

"Ah, forgive me, America." The words were insincere. "I was merely admiring the scar upon your back."

His hand reached up out of reflex, shielding the angry, red mark near the top of his spine from view as he flipped onto his back and pinned Russia with a sour look. The position didn't feel right. His hand was pinned behind his back and limbs pulled tight against his sides to provide more room on the narrow bed. More glaring then he whined again before turning to the side and abandoning his vanity.

"Whatever," he mumbled in return.

A silence stretched between the two, not wholly uncomfortable.

"This is so fucked up."

"Da."

"None of this should've happened."

"I agree, America."

"No, you don't."

"That's true."

A wave of rage skittered across his consciousness as he sat up and twisted his body to stare at the Russian. There was a hard edge to his gaze, blue eyes darkening as he hissed out a growl. The emotion was fleeting at best and soon fled. In its wake, a wave of emptiness and pain cried out. He could feel his people screaming in fury and agony. Like claws scratching at his body, they tore and tore at his mind with the unrelenting force of a wild beast scrambling for purchase. This was something new for him. After all, no one had tried to invade his homeland before.

"Don't know why I trust you," America griped, voice tight and tense. His shoulders were squared, limbs stiff, as he tried to draw himself up to look more imposing. "So fuckin' stupid."

Russia dipped his head, eyes slipping shut as he responded, "It is. I am not one to trust. I will turn on you as soon as my interests are fulfilled."

The confession did not surprise America. They had already been over it before. Both nations agreed that once they each had what they wanted that they would turn on one another. Words hadn't been necessary at the time, but they gave a finality to the promise. At times, America found himself wondering if England and France had the same sort of understanding. He strongly believed they did.

Before more conversation could carry on, a quake shook the hotel and the vibrations snaked up the wood work of the bed. Neither nation seemed fazed by the disturbance as a darker quiet settled over the two. Wordlessly, Russia stood and grabbed his rifle, shot gun, and various others before calmly standing at the door. America was more sluggish to follow, having to cough once more and wipe the blood on the bed sheets before arming himself.

"Europeans?" Russia questioned as he held open the door.

America shook his head and squared his jaw, "No. Mexico. Last I heard, Venezuela and Cuba were failing against her."

-- --

While the fighting in New York and Boston had been relatively conventional for inner city warfare, the one raging in San Antonio wasn't as chaotically ordered. For some time, America had always figured Mexico as an easy foe, one that could be toppled quickly. The nation was proving herself to be quite the spit fire.

Once more, America found himself sitting beside Russia as they hid from the Mexican soldiers and only darted out to fire once or twice before slinking back once more. The enemy soldiers were hidden well. His own men, mixed with some of Russia's relief troops, were also hidden amongst the rubble. Homemade bombs and England's military aid had leveled the city just days ago.

America grit his teeth, grinding them. "What the fuck!" he spat, popping up and shooting once more. A sick sense of satisfaction crept up as he watched the spray of red. "South of the border, wetbacks!"

A smile tugged at the edges of Russia's mouth. He wasn't sure what a wetback was, but he safely assumed it was nothing short of insulting. He appeared from the concrete barrier and fired into the debris surrounding. Another shower of red as another enemy soldier fell. There was nothing sick about Russia's satisfaction, only familiarity.

A curse brought him from the lazy, pleasant haze of killing. He was a little startled to look over and see America clutching at his shoulder. The blood looked more like wet paint to Russia. It languidly rolled out from between America's fingers, slipping down the material of his bomber jacket to pool on the crotch of his jeans. There were more hisses and cusses from the nation. He pulled his hand away once the wound had healed itself.

"You make yourself an easy target," Russia chided, clicking his tongue and rising to shoot. Another two dead, then he ducked back down. "No marks on me, da?"

America rolled his eyes, baleful smile prying at his lips, "Yea, yea. Shut the fuck up and shoot some more."

There was a glint in Russia's eyes as he set the pistol on the ground and reached around to the small pack tucked securely against his side. "I will do one better."

The hand pulled back to reveal an incendiary grenade. Russia pulled the pin with his teeth, stood, and threw the small device. There was a moment's pause then the screams and pained cries of men rang out. The sound was so gratifying, America couldn't hide his sadistic grin. When he looked over, he saw that Russia was wearing a smile akin to his own.

"I fuckin' love you," America joked. His voice was devoid of humor, though. The laugh that followed was more of a bark.

"Then a show of your appreciation is in order, da?"

The response from America was immediate if not seemingly trained. He twisted and let his weight drag him to the side as he slung himself across Russia's lap. Chests flush, he arched his back and stared down at the other nation. He growled as a hand snaked to the back of Russia's skull and yanked roughly upon the tender hairs near the base of his skull. The other man hissed and wrapped his arms possessively around America's waist.

America moved quickly, pressing the muzzle of his gun to the underside of Russia's jaw as he leaned forward and captured the larger nation's lips with his own. The metal was hot. The kiss was harsh. It was not loving or endearing. It was not caring nor gentle nor any semblance of anything nice one could be compelled to call a kiss.

The kiss was rough. Their teeth clinked against one another and tongues darted out to tangle and battle for dominance in one anothers mouths. There was no clear cut victor, only two men bearing down upon each other in savage need. It as simple and searing.

Then it ended. America pulled himself free gracelessly and reloaded his pistol before resuming the old routine. Stand. Shoot. Hide. Stand. Shoot. Hide. Russia followed suit. His movements were more fluid, natural.

America holstered his 92FS and pulled free the M1911 at his hip before standing in a crouch and beckoning Russia to follow as they traveled farther into the front lines. The nation was not hesitant to follow. As they quickly slunk forward, he could not help it as his gaze settled upon America's rear. With an up turn of the lips, he smacked the flat side of his pistol against the American's bottom.

He got no answer till the two were seated behind another stone wall. America loaded his pistol and clicked off the safety before he turned to shoot. "Save the ass worshiping for later, lover boy. I'll ride you rough if you kill twenty more." His words were light and playful.

"Prepare to saddle up, cowboy," the Russian joked back.

The two stood and shot together before ducking behind the stone once more. Neither could hide the self indulgent smiles spreading across their features. Silently, Russia plucked another grenade from his pack. With seasoned aim, he threw it into a den of the enemy before darting back down as flames licked at the stone behind.

Fifteen more to go.

--

A/N: Uhhh. Originally, I wasn't going to continue this. Reviews, though only five, made me feel horridly guilty so I relented. This was written in, honestly, fifteen minutes. OTL``` I tried to fix the errors, please forgive if I missed anything. English doesnotequal my first language. Uh. Anyway. People seem curious about the whole British French team up thing. Will explain how that happened when I figure out myself and find a direction for the story. More violence, bad language, and a new dash of boy lovin'. Ftw? Blahblah, review, whatever. Don't care.