Work Text:
He’d go on. He’d survive and he’d thrive and he’d pursue his beloved until the end of the world came for them all. He was red; he was passion and drive and the fury of love and hate, and he knew his darling could be all of that as well. His sky-eyed love was white, though. He was pure, untouched, and ever so young; beautiful in naivety and innocence, though that naivety was fading and the innocence long since shed. He was the rebirth of the world; the new world drawing its breath, a clean slate for those of the old to attempt to tarnish, only to find they cannot color that spirit, that hope, that everlasting perseverance and determination to thrive.
He was the white of winter’s fury, though, and his beloved was the red of his summer’s rages. They had colored each other, as they had colored the world. The world saw his beloved in shades of blue, as he stood from his pedestal and looked down upon them, hands reaching to pull them up alongside. Blue, the color of the regal, the noble, the just; it suited his lover. But red suited him, too. Red, oh, how red his lover could be; passionate, kind, loving and desperate – red suited his beloved almost more than it could ever suit him. And white? What was there to say? Did any color fit his innocent love more than the color of purity, of newness; of mourning and of loss, but also of the determination to go forwards, to bring the banner onwards? No, he doubted another could wear white as well as his beloved did.
He tasted his love as he devoured his lips, the taste of sweet peppermints overpowering his beloved’s usual taste, and for a moment he thought of the hook-shaped candy canes his lover used to decorate his evergreen Christmas trees on the lonely December nights that they’d once loved to share. It was oddly appropriate, he thought.
They separated, and his lover taunted, “You’re distracted, Russia,” and he felt a wicked smirk crawling on his lips. Distracted was he?
He swung his beloved over his shoulder in a move that obviously surprised the other – though he wondered why that had been – given the protests that begun immediately after he shifted his grip. He shifted the other slightly away from his body as a aimed kick came dangerously close to his precious vital regions; no need for their night to end earlier than either of them had planned. His bright-eyed lover could protest all he wanted; it made no difference to Russia, especially when he knew the bright nation wanted it as much as he did, if not more.
Within seconds he’d made it to the bed and splayed his lover across the cotton sheets the hotel had provided them with.
Red and white and blue lights pulsed from outside – a police car speeding past them, pulsing the shared colors of their flags as it drove – and red and white and blue spilled into the room. Red and white like the candy canes his lover loved, the ones that drove him crazy in the meeting as he watched cherry lips curled around the white stem of the treat, white teeth gleaming every time violet eyes got caught, attention dazed and desirous like never before. Blue for those eyes gleaming at him, predatory from his position pinned under him, vulnerable and strong all the same, for the gaze that caught him every time those damned peppermint candies vanished past those lovely lips.
“I’m going to wreck you,” he purred, enjoying the sultry smirk that caught on those candy red lips, the white gleam of a scimitar smile, the raised brow, and challenging gleam in blue, blue eyes.
America never spoke in bed. But then again, he never needed to.
There had been a hundred years or more of meetings like this; of late night calls and hurried, harried meetings in dingy bars or street side motels, of months of planned espionage leading to marble hallways, formal, sleek suits, with silk sheets set on the bed they always ended up using. Over a hundred years they had entangled themselves – in the world, in their politics, in their weaponry, in their bed – like the sun, whose original pull entangled the planets around it, crisscrossing them until they collided, and left the world as it was now.
The first time they’d entangled themselves in bed, it had been in Alaska. The land that they had worked so hard on together – the one they shared to most fond memories within, where the best of their friendship resided – pulled them together. The day Russia had been due to sail off after the flag changing; he had been unable to deny himself the revelation of his feelings. And America had been more than receptive to the change in their growing relationship. They’d splayed themselves on cotton sheets in their well-worn cottage in Alaska, amidst one of the clearest nights they’d had in years, letting the light of the northern lights bathe them in their gleam. He remembered it clearest; the blue-eyed nation had been a splash of pale white against the red tinted cotton of the sheets. His moans and whimpers had been intoxicating; his purity had been evident, in the blood that had spilled on the sheets that first time.
Things had become hard for him after that first night, and it had been decades before he could visit his beloved in person again. And when he visited, he had been a different nation. That night, he’d taken that puritanical innocence of desperate, loving hope and stained it with the crimson of violence and revolution. He would never forget that night, and he knew America would not either.
But America was far from passive, and with his naivety shattered at Russia’s hand, he bore his red-stained white shroud with pride and a grudge. And Russia had never been able to destroy him as completely as he nearly had that night. From then on, they’d fought to the bed; fought in their meetings – drove the nations away before bloody, vicious fighting turned into bloody foreplay – and fought until they entangled themselves in each other so much that they had no choice but to stop.
And as loud as he could be – in person, in the meetings, to the rest of the world – Russia’s beloved never needed words to tell his lover what he wanted in their bed. Oh, he was far from silent, the nation mused, his lover was a screamer no doubt. But words never made it past his lips, and Russia had to work to hear his name slip out in the heat of the moment. It was vastly rewarding when it did.
A sudden sting in his lips brought him back to the impatient nation beneath him, and he was granted a bloodstained, white-toothed smile when he realized the other had bitten his lip in order to regain his attention. Distracted? That smile asked him, and he bent down to entangle the other in a bloody, filthy, passionate kiss, until the stain of blood covered both their lips and the taste of copper was overlaid with something else.
America tasted like candy canes, he noted. Sweet, striped, and dangerously deceptive. How oddly fitting.