All invading forces had been driven out and, now that the immediate danger to American soil had been effectively prevented, it was time for America's least favorite part of the whole war business: a meeting to decide their next move. He honestly hated the meetings, hated everyone attending them, hated the reason they even had to gather. In another time, he would have thrown the other countries out, called them nasty names, and wiped his hands of the whole business. With the other countries hungry to tear down his country, his ideals, his essence, America had no choice but to accept the help.
Even if it was misplaced and fleeting at best.
North Korea looked almost pensive as she stared down at the table top, seeing nothing and too far gone into her own thoughts to see America staring at her almost thoughtfully. Another time, another place, the two would have gladly gone at each others throats. America had been half expecting the Korean to join with England and France. Imagine his surprise when the woman curtly informed him she would be assisting and sending three divisions to Maine. He knew Russia had something to do with it. Something.
Russia always had something to do with everything. America was, at times, absent minded and quite an ignorant asshole, which he rather prided himself on, but he wasn't fool enough to miss the obvious signs of his wartime lover's handiwork. The Baltics joining with them had been a given, though he had to admit having Belarus on the team wasn't exactly the best. Before the war, they hadn't exactly been on good terms.
North Korea and Cuba were Russia's doing as well. America had tapped a few of the Russian communication lines at the start of the war, ever paranoid and not rusting towards anyone. There had been open negotiations with Cuba, ones he did not like but could not deny were needed. Last thing he needed was an invasion in Florida. That would have just been icing on the fucking cake.
To America's credit, he had lassoed two of his own closest allies to help out: Canada and Venezuela. At first, the pair had been reluctant to get involved but as the invading forces neared the Canadian border and some nations in South America joined with France, both had consented to fight along America. Out of necessity and some misplaced sense of obligation, Israel and Egypt had joined in on the fray but only after receiving promises of reinforcements as most of the Middle East threatened the two nations.
America couldn't deny he was at least a little pleased with how things were going. So far, they had been successful. Russia was holding firm in Europe and Asia. North Korea was effectively keeping her siblings from entering on the opposing side with extreme diplomatic pressuring. Israel and Egypt, though he would never admit to either, were keeping the other Middle Eastern nations preoccupied and effectively keeping the rather Anti-American nations from joining against their cause.
The American snorted.
Their cause.
What a joke.
He couldn't even recall how things had gotten so bad. Had anyone informed him that World War Three was looming just over the horizon, he would have out right laughed in their face, gave them a slap on the back, and dismissed the comment. He had been warned though, hadn't he?
Estonia's words were lost to him. America was no longer paying attention as he became engrossed in his own thoughts. It was readily becoming a habit.
America had been warned, but he had not laughed. It was for the simple fact that it had been Germany of all people warning him. The man had looked utterly serious - then again, when didn't Germany look serious? - and had leveled America with a look. A look was all it took to convey the gravity of his words.
There are tensions rising in Europe, America. War is upon us, America mouthed, rehearsing the words soundlessly.
Germany had been right and now Germany was gone. Gone like so many of the others. He, and along with most of Europe, had fallen quickly. Nearly over night: gone. No more. Dead.
The thought made him sick. Already, so many of his friends had fallen to France and England. His stomach churned unpleasantly as he began to think about the pair. Really, who would have thought the old man and the frog would join hands for a common cause and be so god damned, fucking effective. All the quarrels before, all the fighting and the insults and the tensions and the history. None of it seemed to matter anymore.
He had to wonder; did history even matter anymore? They were carving out a new past, a new passage for the history books. Did the distant past make any difference now as they spilled their blood for a new, unknown cause? He supposed learning from the mistakes from centuries past was important, supposed that there were life lessons in the events of yesteryear.
The real question was, did any of them care anymore?
This was not a war of follies and alliances, a war of justice and liberation, a war of ideologies and mind games. It wasn't a war of insecurities or a war of resources. It was a war for war's sake. It was bloodshed stemmed from the primal needs of their people to be the best, to be on top, to dominate. No, this was no noble war, it was an age old war of see who can claim the tippy-top of the mountain and stay there. A war of I'm better than you and if you disagree I'll shoot you in the face.
The idea made America smile.
"What are you thinking?" Russia asked coyly.
The man was smiling, leaning towards his new found ally and one hand finding its way to America's knee. The gesture roused the American from his thoughts. Of course Russia would notice him spacing. They were too similar for him not the notice everything. It felt like an invasion of America's privacy, like Russia knew everything about him and could wield that power effortlessly. As he looked over to the nation sitting beside him, looking so much like an innocent child about to tear him limb from limb, America could see that knowing smile.
Yes.
He and Russia were two of a kind. Peas in a pod. Thick as thieves. Ready to tear each other apart at the first sign of misgivings and fully prepared to mobilize troops should the barely there alliance suddenly fall threw. America had two divisions placed in Alaska and Oregon specifically for the task should it have ever come to that. He didn't doubt for a moment that Russia had his own men standing on the coast, just waiting for the green light: go.
Russia's hand began making its way up America's thigh, dragging across the thick fabric of his military trousers at a lazy pace. There would be no more mental musings, no more dark thoughts and useless thinking. There was only the here and now for America. Here, he was in a conference room, surrounded, mostly, by people he didn't like or that didn't like him. Now, there was a skilled hand working at the button to his pants and slipping leisurely below his waistband.
Yes, only the here and now.
Here smelled like lemon and cleaning supplies. It smelled like paperwork and leather, like politics and diplomacy. Now felt too hot. The window was open and the heat from midsummer was streaming in. He could taste the warmth, smell it, breathe it. It was nearly suffocating.
Here was Russia's hand, teasingly fondling him. Now was Russia staring absently at Estonia as the boy droned on about this, that, and the other thing, obviously not paying attention. Here had America's love-hate lover loosely gripping him and moving so slow. Now had America biting his lip and staring, eyes half lidded, at the wall as he tried to swallow any keening, whining noise of protests at Russia's inhuman teasing.
Somewhere, in the back of his mind, America was envisioning the times he and Russia had fallen into bed with one another. At first, it had been two men needing to find release, to rid themselves of the tension which mounted from being nations. Somewhere along the line, the affairs had become tentative, trembling steps towards something meaningful, something they both feared. When things went sour with the outbreak of war, their relationship had changed again.
When they found the time between battles to lay with one another, the affairs could hardly be justified as even sex. They didn't make love, god no, and they didn't have sex. They fucked and there was no pleasant way of phrasing it. Limbs would lash out, hitting, and the blunt edges of nails would find flesh and drag and scratch and draw blood. Mouths would gasp and move silently, kissing, sucking, biting, making the other bleed. Thrusting, pounding, driving them both farther and farther from sanity as the war ebbed away and there was only a coil of raw hatred towards each other, towards the world, towards themselves.
America was remembering those times, the images helping him to control the need to buck into Russia's hand like a wanton whore. Faintly, in the back of his mind, a song was playing. A kid in the 49th Division had been playing it one night, drunk off his ass and staggering around as he slurred the chorus. At the time, America had snickered at just how befitting the lyrics were to he and Russia. The kid was Roger Danson, a private and fresh out of boot camp. He had half his head blown off by a high powered rifle in Manhattan.
Russia's hand went faster, dragging up and down and squeezing ever so gently, almost fondly. It was a mocking gesture, but America found himself uncaring towards the action as he shifted none too subtly and pressed his hips upward. Yes, he was Russia's little slut, his boy toy ally. America took comfort in self reassurance that Russia was just as much his slut and boy toy. They were each others play things; children dabbling in the arts of war and adult intimacy.
He could feel the end coming. The images playing through his mind and that hand working ever so methodically were bringing him close and a knot formed in his stomach, warm and yearning for release. Another minute or two and he would tumble over the edge while the others called for this and that, speaking of battle plans and war strategies.
"Hey, Al, are you okay?" Canada questioned quietly from beside him.
Canada, oh Canada. America could never bring himself to think ill of his brother. His ever faithful brother. Though his personality had been warped and twisted into something ugly and rotting, America smiled lazily at his brother, grunting as Russia increased his pace. He was trying to embarrass America before their allies, before his brother, but America would not relent. America never relented. He was America.
"Just great, Mattie," America nearly purred, catching himself as he released into Russia's hand.
America turned his gaze from Canada to North Korea who stood at the head of the table, beginning to unveil her own ideas and plans on their next move. Russia's hand retracted, wiping away the evidence of their under the table sins before folding them on his lap and leaning back with a self satisfied quirk of the lips. America redid the button to his pants and slouched under the table, hiding his neither regions further from view.
"Just wonderful, Mattie." America smiled, the edges curving upward softly.
A/N: Uhhh, is it obvious I don't know where I'm going with this but obviously having a right real good time dicking around? Thought so. Anyway, not much to say about this. It's weird, I'm weird, makes sense. The song mentioned is Bruises and Bitemarks by Good with Grenades, I always think of some primal RussiaAmerica rutting whenever I heard to it. Sue me. Think that's about all I have to say. Enjoy, review, it's you life, do what you want. : D
