FIC: Go Ahead and Play Dead, Rus/US, M
Title: Go Ahead and Play Dead (Passive-Aggressive Bullshit)
Author: Dementis
Fandom: APH
Pairing: Russia/America. Sort of.
Rated: M
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, nor its characters.
Summary: The Soviet Union has collapsed. So has Alfred, in a way.
1991. New York City.
Alfred received the news that morning from his president, personally.
"The Soviet Union has collapsed," President Bush told him with that easygoing Texas smile. "We won, boy. You won the war."
But no, no - Alfred felt cold all over suddenly. He imagined the body of one Ivan Braginski, cold as when he was alive. Or perhaps he would be twig thin and wasting away as he'd been during the famines in the past. Why had Alfred helped him through those? Because, part of his brain insisted, because you were friends then. Because he hadn't betrayed you yet.
No.
Alfred went home that night and stared emptily into the mirror like he expected a taller man to appear there, taller and stronger and paler and colder. His fingers gripped the edge of the sink and he trembled until sweat beaded on his forehead. A swift, nervous look toward the door told him that no - no, Ivan wouldn't be coming back. That the news was real. Chillingly real.
"Fuck," he whispered to his reflection, almost glaring at the weakened man in the mirror. "Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. No. Fuck. No."
His voice was thin. He remembered a stronger voice in his ear, stronger hands holding his hips, strong fingers slipping into him and stretching him and making him gasp and throw his head back, and in frustration with this memory, Alfred shoved his hand down the front of his pants and touched himself, held himself, heavy and hot, pretending it was someone else's hand there instead.
"N-no," he gasped as he stroked, watching himself in the mirror with a nausea he hadn't foreseen.
Ivan's hands. Ivan's strong arms around him, a firm grip holding him with an expert touch. "How long, America?" the imaginary Soviet asked in his ear, low in timber, cold in tone. "How long since you have been touched like this?"
"You'd know," Alfred hissed back, "watching me - watching me... watching me watching you, you were watching me, fuck..."
A soft chuckle against the nape of his neck. "Gilbert? Or, no - Arthur. Tsk. Was it good, Alfred? Letting him take you when he didn't care for you in the slightest?" Alfred felt sick. So, so sick. The hand around him tightened and he groaned. "You're disappointing. Pathetic. Look at you, spreading yourself like this for me... when you hate me..."
And he did. He gasped out a name he didn't quite recognize and came messily over his own hand and over the counter of the bathroom sink. The figure in the mirror was alone, just him, just a shaking and chalky teenage boy with anger deep in his eyes.
There was no one with him in the bathroom.
Alfred held onto the counter and glared weakly into the eyes of his reflection.
"Wake up," he begged. But he wasn't dreaming.
Author: Dementis
Fandom: APH
Pairing: Russia/America. Sort of.
Rated: M
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, nor its characters.
Summary: The Soviet Union has collapsed. So has Alfred, in a way.
1991. New York City.
Alfred received the news that morning from his president, personally.
"The Soviet Union has collapsed," President Bush told him with that easygoing Texas smile. "We won, boy. You won the war."
But no, no - Alfred felt cold all over suddenly. He imagined the body of one Ivan Braginski, cold as when he was alive. Or perhaps he would be twig thin and wasting away as he'd been during the famines in the past. Why had Alfred helped him through those? Because, part of his brain insisted, because you were friends then. Because he hadn't betrayed you yet.
No.
Alfred went home that night and stared emptily into the mirror like he expected a taller man to appear there, taller and stronger and paler and colder. His fingers gripped the edge of the sink and he trembled until sweat beaded on his forehead. A swift, nervous look toward the door told him that no - no, Ivan wouldn't be coming back. That the news was real. Chillingly real.
"Fuck," he whispered to his reflection, almost glaring at the weakened man in the mirror. "Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. No. Fuck. No."
His voice was thin. He remembered a stronger voice in his ear, stronger hands holding his hips, strong fingers slipping into him and stretching him and making him gasp and throw his head back, and in frustration with this memory, Alfred shoved his hand down the front of his pants and touched himself, held himself, heavy and hot, pretending it was someone else's hand there instead.
"N-no," he gasped as he stroked, watching himself in the mirror with a nausea he hadn't foreseen.
Ivan's hands. Ivan's strong arms around him, a firm grip holding him with an expert touch. "How long, America?" the imaginary Soviet asked in his ear, low in timber, cold in tone. "How long since you have been touched like this?"
"You'd know," Alfred hissed back, "watching me - watching me... watching me watching you, you were watching me, fuck..."
A soft chuckle against the nape of his neck. "Gilbert? Or, no - Arthur. Tsk. Was it good, Alfred? Letting him take you when he didn't care for you in the slightest?" Alfred felt sick. So, so sick. The hand around him tightened and he groaned. "You're disappointing. Pathetic. Look at you, spreading yourself like this for me... when you hate me..."
And he did. He gasped out a name he didn't quite recognize and came messily over his own hand and over the counter of the bathroom sink. The figure in the mirror was alone, just him, just a shaking and chalky teenage boy with anger deep in his eyes.
There was no one with him in the bathroom.
Alfred held onto the counter and glared weakly into the eyes of his reflection.
"Wake up," he begged. But he wasn't dreaming.