#rusamee

I am tagging... mechanicalcrayon (yes, this is me trying to mooch off more songs from you), fruks, sardonicxx, rusamee (HOLY SHIT I JUST NOTICED THIS THIS IS PERFECT), azayyyzel, colourlesscas, cryingbcmisha, lonely-archangel, a-fandomfangirl, and thegirlwiththedemontattoo (I'll get to the handwritten thing, I promise ;n; ).

America knows more words for 'hate' than he does for 'love'. So sitting across the table from Russia, he stares at that smiling face and decides that what he feels must be hate.  That's what everyone tells him it should be.  In a war of opposing ideologies, there's no room for anything else.  America couldn't remember the exact moment that he'd signed on for another war -- those transpirings were as muddy as the Mississippi, and there was no turning back. They play their parts well for the onlookers.  Russia pours himself a fresh glass of vodka to prove that he couldn't care less about what America's officials have to demand.  America counters by unloading enough Big Macs on the table to feed the entire room, wrappers crinkling as he uncovers each one to noisily scarf down.  His lack of manners bothers Russia's people; their disgusted looks hit him as severely as snowflakes, ignored.  He catches Russia's eyes across the table with his cheeks bulging full and raises a challenging eyebrow while shoving the last bit of a bun into bursting lips with a finger. Russia insults him for his lack of manners.  America insults him for his lack of interest.  Russia insinuates that his eating habits will cause heaviness.  America insinuates that his nose blocks sunlight from getting to his land.  This continues until the moment where Russia's hand reaches for his pipe just as America's hand reaches for his gun, blocking a swing of that pipe with the edged of his firearm and there is yet another stand-off at the negotiating table.  Both superpowers back down when their officials intervene in a scramble to keep the peace. Neither side gets what they want.  The conflict will carry on.  News reports tomorrow will inform their people that the two countries remain in a state of tension without any sign of resolution.  The threat of their mutually assured destruction continues to loom over the globe.  With the meeting adjourned everyone goes their separate ways with suspicious glances and frustrated murmurs. Back at his hotel, America enters his room to find that Russia has beat him here.  He firmly turns the lock on the door so there will be no interruptions.  His face is immediately apologetic.  "Went too far with the nose thing, huh?" "It was unfair.  You are either ridiculous or cruel."  Russia responds, arms crossed in his sour mood where he is seated on the American's bed.  "Your hand is okay?" America looks down to it as he crosses the room.  He belatedly remembers feeling the smash of Russia's pipe against his knuckles and inspects the swollen state they're in.  "I think it'll survive.  My own fault for blocking from the wrong angle." Taking hold of that injured hand in both of his, Russia lifts it to his lips, to brush his own apologies in tender strokes on swollen skin.  "Ah.  I had thought I'd seen you flinch.  You might have said so." "Too much trouble."  America says with a shake of his head.  He shakes his hand free of the other nation's grip to cup Russia's face with it.  This lets him direct the Russian into a kiss, long and lingering and lacking any ounce of hate.  His face is contemplative when he breaks it.  "Speaking of trouble, I still owe you for when you nearly broke my back against that alley wall in Moscow.  That means it's my turn tonight to see if I can break your resolve, Russia." Even with an injured hand he doesn't let Russia get the upper hand against him tonight.  Just presses the man down into the mattress until he can get them stripped down.  If anyone saw the way they made love they might have mistaken it for hate.  Clashing bodies, warring mouths, neither willing to acknowledge superiority from the other.  America isn't experienced with being gentle; Russia doesn't seek to correct him.  It's always this way for them.  The satisfying thrill of conquering a rival for a night. After the passion passes they sleep in each other's arms.  In the morning, they'll part ways, enemies in view of the public.  No letters will be exchanged.  Only documents full of veiled threats.  Those are the rules of this game they've got going.  A play of pretend that might one day become a reality.  America knows that Russia will work to counter his every move, just enough that their game won't advance too far to the next level. There's a comfort in rivalry.  Their thoughts will always be focused on one another.  They will not work so hard for anyone else.  They'll give their all to remind the other nation that there's no chance of them ever backing down.  As far as long distance relationships go, it's one hell of a courtship. They exchange words of hate because that is what they know best.  They don't exchange words of love.  They don't need to.