Switch
Switch - Russia/America, Ukraine, Lithuania, and England.
Russia and America spend a day in each other's bodies thanks to a misaimed spell from England.
Genre: ...Slice of someone else's life? XD It's not exactly a comedy, but bits of it are pretty funny I think.
1970s. PG-13.
For not_elven as part of the russiamerica spring fic exchange. ♥
---
The first thing America noticed was how cold it was, for April.
He grumbled, drew his head in under the blankets, and turned over. His breath huffed white clouds under the quilts. Cold pricked at the tips of his ears, turned the air chilly in his lungs, and after five minutes of curling into a tighter and tighter ball until his knees almost touched his chin, he gave up. His eyes opened in the dim hollow under the blankets, and he stuck one arm out of cover to feel around on the night stand for his glasses.
He couldn't find them.
He frowned to himself, felt, felt, felt, things clattered out of the way, something thumped onto the floor--America heaved an exasperated sigh and sat up, shoving the blankets out of the way. Where the hell were his--
Glasses…
Wait a minute.
America sat up a little more and looked around the room. His stomach froze.
Oh, fuck no. Fuck, fuck, fuck no.
He was in…Russia's bedroom. With--absolutely no memory of how he'd got here.
Fuck, he'd promised himself that he'd never let this happen!
He shoved to his feet, wobbled steeply, the floor looked too far away, Jesus, how much did he drink last night? He cast around, hands grabbing at nothing, until he spotted Russia's bathrobe hung over the back of a chair. He threw it on. Fuck. Frost covered up the windowpanes, and he couldn't find his glasses or any of his clothes. He went down on his hands and knees, checked under the bed--nothing--then shook out the blankets, just to make sure. Nothing. God fucking damn it, Russia must have made off with his clothes, and, and left him stranded in his bedroom, and America was gonna have to slink out into the main rooms in a baby blue bath robe and ask to have his clothes back--
America was going to kill him.
He sucked down a deep breath, girded his loins, and fixed on his best what, I don't even know what your problem is smile. Then he walked out of Russia's bedroom and almost knocked over Ukraine.
"S-sorry!" she gasped, her hand over her heart.
"No, my bad, sorry--" America cleared his throat. His voice came out too soft. "Hey, um, this is kind of awkward, but um--" He coughed again. What the hell was going on with his voice? "Look, have you seen Russia?"
Ukraine stopped. Glanced to the side. Smiled uneasily. "Y…yes?"
America waited a few seconds, then tried out the smile again. "Yeah, whereabouts can I find him? I just need to…talk to him for a sec, and then I'll get out of your hair."
Ukraine's expression fixed open in a kind of alarmed amiability. "Ah…he is…here?"
"So like…in his study, or in the--kitchen, or…you don't know. Okay. That's cool. I'll go find him." America edged around her.
Ukraine backed away. "Ah…well, I have many chores today, so…I will just…let you look…for…him."
"Yeah, that's cool…" America watched her disappear back down the hallway at double speed, bemused.
Well, that was weird.
He trotted down the stairs, still trying to clear his throat. Man, sleeping in the cold must've given him laryngitis, or something.
"Good morning, sir," Lithuania offered as America passed the doorway to the laundry. He didn't look up from his ironing.
America brightened. "Hey, Lithuania! Long time no see!"
Lithuania glanced up, tucked his hair behind his ear, and waited.
America tucked his hands in his pockets and leaned back against the lintel. "Man, it feels like I haven't seen you in ages! When's the last time we got a chance to catch up?"
Lithuania's eyes slid a notch closer to blank. "Last…night?"
America stopped. "Oh…sorry." He shifted awkwardly. "I don't really remember anything from, uh, from last night."
Lithuania paused, then gave America a sympathetic smile. "Up late drinking again, sir?"
"Hey, don't--" America pushed off the wall. "--Well, yeah, at least, I think so, but like…you don't have to make it sound like a habit, or anything."
Lithuania looked so confounded that he only remembered to pick up the iron when the shirt he was working on started to smoke.
"Oh, no--ah, sorry, sir--I'll--I'll fix it--" Lithuania tore the shirt off the ironing board and flapped it out, blew on the burn mark frantically.
America tried, "Hey, it's cool, it's not like it's my shirt," but Lithuania wasn't listening to him. "Anyway, I'll…let you get back to your work. Talk to you later?"
"Yes," Lithuania managed, distracted.
America shrugged to himself and kept going down the hallway.
And passed a mirror.
And stopped.
His eyes snapped up and down the hallway, something prickling across the back of his neck. Nobody was coming.
He looked back into the mirror: he stared.
Russia stared back.
It was a long, icy minute before he thought to search himself, patted himself, no, that weight was not his, and--and his hands were too pale; he only just noticed that, his whole body is too pale, it was definitely not the light--and he tore open the baby blue bathrobe and looked at his chest, his stomach, and the scar across his stomach was gone; the long one, from his civil war, but--that scar, the long rake down his chest, he remembered that one. Russia had told him about that one. From when France had invaded with Napoleon.
America bolted into the nearest bathroom and locked the door. His heart hammered.
Just what the fuck was going on?
He patted his hair, rubbed his hands down his arms, and yeah, that was Russia's hair, this was Russia's body. What, what had happened to him?
He braced his hands on the sink, stared into the mirror, and noticed how a cold sweat felt on Russia's skin as he tried to think. He was still trying to think half an hour later, when there came a timid knock on the door.
"Ah…brother?" Ukraine's fragile and hesitant voice. "You have a phone call from America."
America jolted. He opened the door. Ukraine tangled her fingers together. "Thanks," he managed. "I'll take it in here."
Her eyebrows drew together; she looked over his shoulder, at the shower and the toilet. She bit her lip. "Did you…ah…find Russia?"
"Yeah," America said, grim. "He was in the mirror."
Ukraine started to say something, and stopped herself. She withdrew into the living room, and returned a moment later with the heavy black phone held against her bosom like a shield. The cord stretched out around the corner. America accepted the phone, brought it into the bathroom, and shut the door.
"Hi," he said, too loud, as soon as he got the receiver pinned between his shoulder and his chin.
There was a little hesitation before he heard, in his own voice, "…America?"
"Where did you put my clothes?" America burst out, and a second later he realized that that made no sense, at all, but it was the first thing he'd been primed to say to Russia, and he thought he was maybe kind of freaking out, and--
There was another pause, and then, "This is Russia."
"This had better fucking be Russia!" America gripped the mouthpiece. "What the fuck is going on? Did you do this? Did your KGB assholes come up with some crazy fucking body-swapping drug, because I swear to God--"
"Is this America?"
"Yes this is America!"
"America, you need to calm down," Russia said, clear and firm, and God, it was so weird to hear his own voice coming from somewhere other than himself. "We have changed places."
"Did you do this?" America demanded again.
"I am as surprised as you are. We both need to be calm."
America took a deep breath, and another deep breath, and tried in his calmest voice, "What the fuck do you think is going on?"
"I have no idea," Russia replied. "Maybe England."
"What does England have to do with anything?" America hunched over the sink and stared into the bathroom mirror.
"He has caused accidents before, during his--"
"--Is this going to be, like, fairy bullshit? Because England keeps talking about his fairies, and I keep telling him 'dude you have got a serious screw loose,' and he--"
"Unfortunately, when I called him, his line was busy," Russia interrupted.
"Well, that's just great."
"So I recommend," Russia went on, "That we both stay where we are, and try not to talk to too many people. We will wait until we can reach England. I will continue calling him. He is more likely to pick up a call from your number than he is from mine."
"No kidding." America pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Are we agreed? --We will both stay at home, and try not to cause a disturbance. I am sure we would both like to return to our own bodies as quietly as possible."
America let out a long breath and let his shoulders drop a few inches. "Yeah. Okay. That sounds smart."
"Good. I will call you again as soon as I know more."
"Yeah," America exhaled.
The line clicked.
America made his cautious way into the living room and returned the phone to the end table. Ukraine, Lithuania, Estonia, and Poland were all gathered around the sofa, staring at him. Lithuania and Poland were whispering to each other.
"Uh, hey." America gave a jerky little wave.
More staring, and the whispering stopped.
"I'm gonna…go get dressed." America edged back towards the door.
Poland gave him a huge, fake smile and two big thumbs up. "Awesome news, boss!"
As America withdrew up the stairs, he heard, "Wow, you were right--Russia is totally having one of those days."
---
America spent almost an hour in Russia's study, loitering and nervous, before he jerked upright and groaned "I am a fucking idiot" and ran out of the house.
---
He found Russia on his way out of the Pentagon, wearing America's body, America's glasses, and America's best fucking suit. He carried a leather briefcase creaking full of what America was certain were the capital-C Classified kind of classified documents.
"I knew it," America accused.
Russia stopped on the stairs as the door chunked shut behind him. He gave America a mild look. "Oh…I wasn't expecting to see you here, Ivan."
America shook his head and pointed to the ground at Russia's feet. "Put down the briefcase."
"You know, you have such a helpful Secretary of Defense--" Russia looked over his shoulder to the door. "I just got out of a meeting with him."
"Put down the briefcase, or I swear to God."
"You swear what?" Russia gave him wide eyes, all innocence, the briefcase handle clasped delicately with both hands. "What will you do? Try to take it off of me? In front of your own department of defense?"
America swallowed, and grimaced, and felt two dozen cameras burning into the back of his neck.
"I think everyone in this city knows Alfred Jones," Russia went on. He nudged up his glasses--America's glasses. "What do you think would happen?"
"Russia, just…put down the goddamn briefcase? And stop being a dick?"
"It's only a little light reading," Russia demurred. "Until we can get in touch with England."
America planted one hand on his hip and scrubbed the other hand through his hair. "You are fucking loving this, aren't you. This must be like somebody handed you the key to Fort Knox."
"Oh…" Russia's gaze went a little distant, and a dreamy smile floated across his mouth. "I think I could get that, too."
"Cute," America ground out. "Look, how about we…make a deal."
"What kind of deal?" Russia's attention flickered back to America.
"I won't totally exploit this situation if you won't?" America suggested. The wind tugged at the tails of his scarf, and he smoothed them down.
Russia inquired, "How would you exploit this situation? Do you know a single one of my passcodes?"
"No, but neither do…you, and…you still…got all of this…" America trailed off as Russia began to smirk. "Oh, fuck you, you spying…fucking…spy." That smirk widened, and America told himself to remember never to smirk like that; that was not one of his better looks. "Okay, asshole, how about a different deal--"
"--I'm listening--"
"--How about you put down the briefcase, or I go straight back to your house and make out with Belarus."
It took Russia a few seconds to work through that. He blanched.
"Because when we switch back--" America started.
"I understand," Russia cut in. He hesitated, and his fingers twitched around the briefcase's handle, and then he set the briefcase down on the Pentagon steps.
"Good." America grabbed Russia by the wrist--his wrist--and dragged him down into the parking lot. "Now I'm not gonna let you out of my sight. Come on, I'm hungry."
---
They went to America's favorite diner. America ordered a hamburger. Russia got the soup. The waitress gave him a strange look.
"I always get the hamburger," America explained as she walked away. He tried to cross his legs under the table, and bumped his knee. God, there sure was enough of Russia to keep track of.
Russia pushed away the beer menu and replied, "That would be why my sinuses feel like a grease spill."
"Those are my sinuses. --And they don't feel like--" America started to unravel Russia's scarf and was stopped when Russia shot half to his feet, leaned across the table, and put out one hand.
America gave him a blank and expectant look. "What."
"Leave it on," Russia asked, soft.
America glanced around the diner. Nobody was paying them any attention. He unwound the scarf again and draped it over the back of the booth. "Russia, I don't know how to tell you this, but--nobody here gives a shit about your scars."
A flinch went through the corners of Russia's eyes, and that was an expression America had seen before: it was hidden better, on his face, behind the glasses and shielded by darker eyelashes. Russia's gaze dropped to the tabletop, and his fingers curled around the corners of his napkin. "Please just put it back on."
A long, too-quiet moment passed, in which America became aware of the clatter of the dishwasher from the kitchen, and the smell of cinnamon and patchouli as the aromas from the bakery counter mingled with the hot specials…and then he took up the scarf and wound it back around his neck, muttering "You are too neurotic to live, I swear to God."
Russia relaxed.
America rearranged his fork and knife, chewed on the inside of his lip, and felt too big, wedged into his side of the booth. After a minute, he huffed, "So now what."
Russia shrugged. It flickered through America's mind that that really was a nice suit. It rose and dropped on his shoulders in clean, crisp lines, and Russia leaned forward and draped an arm over the table and made the light strike the side of his face so that oh God stop checking yourself out. "I still think England is responsible. He will probably contact us."
America reined himself in, met Russia's--his--eyes. "So, did you really call him?"
Russia paused.
"Yeah," America sighed. "I figured."
"We will call him when we go home, yes? --Since you said you would be following me." Russia laced his hands on the table, tugged at the corner of his napkin.
"Goddamn right I'm gonna be following--oh hey, thanks." He flashed a smile to the waitress as she set down his basket of fries. Russia ignored her. She gave both of them a strange look before retreating to the kitchen.
A minute passed, as America drenched his french fries in oil and salt and ketchup, and Russia looked out the window. America only glanced up from his work when Russia mused, "It was so quiet in your house this morning. How do you sleep, with no one around?"
America propped his chin on his hand and popped a fry into his mouth. "Mm dunno, I just, sleep. I've always been on my own, pretty much."
Russia made a soft sound of acknowledgment, and murmured, "I lived alone for a while when I was young…I didn't like it."
America just watched him, for a while, and Russia didn't seem inclined to say anything else, and the mood had gone all quiet and off-white. America broke it with a grin. "So, how long did it take you to figure out what had happened, when you woke up?"
Russia canted his head. "I realized it right away, of course." There was a question in his voice.
"…Seriously?" America tried to cross his legs again. Banged his knee. His fork skidded off the edge of the table, and he grabbed for it.
"Yes. …Why, how long did you--"
"Oh, yeah," America assured him, and flicked his hair back, even though he didn't have any hair to flick back, because Russia's hair was shorter around the front, but whatever. "Right away. First thing."
A furrow appeared between Russia's eyebrows, and he started to speak, so America cut him off. "Hey, so, like--look, did you look at me naked this morning?"
Russia's expression sank even deeper into perplexity. "What? I--I have seen you naked before, America."
America flapped his hand impatiently. "Yeah, but like, that was with my permission! And I was there! It's totally different."
"…I didn't look at you naked."
"Bullshit, you totally did."
Russia opened his mouth, closed it, and frowned. "I had other things on my mind, you realize--"
"Dude, it's cool, I mean, you can admit it; you totally looked at me naked." America straightened out his cuffs. "I mean, it's all right. Who wouldn't. If you just, you know, had an opportunity like that drop into your lap. …My lap."
Russia waited a few seconds to see if America was done, and then repeated, patient: "I didn't look at you naked."
America's face fell. "Well why not?"
Russia shut his eyes. "…Maybe I glanced--"
"I knew it!"
"While I was getting dressed--"
"I fucking knew it--"
They were still carrying on when the waitress brought them their food.
---
The phone was ringing when they came through the door to America's house. America crossed to the kitchen and picked it up without thinking. "Sup."
"--It's about bloody time, I've been trying to reach you all day, where have you been?"
"Hi, England." America tipped his hip against the wall.
"--Russia? Is that you?" That tinny, incredulous tone, of England bringing himself up short. America rolled his eyes to the ceiling.
"No, it's America. I'm just, you know, I'm kinda not feeling myself today--"
"Right," England declared, and heaved a gust of relief. "Listen, in that case--where is, ah…where is Russia?"
"He's right--" America looked around. "Oh, I thought he was right behind me…" A door closed overhead. "He's upstairs."
"You see, the thing is, I ah--there was a bit of a--of an accident--"
"Oh, it had better have been a fucking accident," America started.
"It was, I assure you it was," England jumped in. "I had…actually been trying to change France's place with a toadstool, but I must have mixed up my filing…"
"Whatever," America dismissed. "England. Just. How do we fix it."
"Well, there's no way to reverse the spell, exactly--"
"Bad answer, England--"
"--But the effect only lasts for a day," England finished. "You should only have…six more hours of this, I think."
America rucked his hand through his hair--and got distracted, for the fifth or sixth time since he'd gotten up, because, wow, Russia's hair really was soft. "Six hours. Okay. Well, that's good news."
"I suspected it might be." England paused. "You know, there is a bright side to all this. From my perspective."
America mouthed Figures and said "I'm all ears."
"At the very least--you must admit now that magic is real."
"No," America returned.
"But--"
America hung up.
He made his way up to the second floor: the stairs creaked under Russia's feet more than they ever did under his. The bedroom door was open. Light fell into the hallway. America went in.
Russia sat on the floor next to America's bed, a cardboard box pulled out beside him. America blushed.
"You kept all this," Russia said, soft.
America's voice came out too loud. "Look don't act like it's a big deal or anything--" He wavered a few steps into the room.
"These are the…letters I sent you during your civil war…" Russia set them gently aside, fingertips caressing the ribbon they'd been tied in. "This is the--hammer from the dedication ceremony for--"
"--Because seriously, I keep everything, I mean, seriously, if you wanted to check out my storage room there's like--" America sank down on the edge of the bed.
"--the Trans-Siberian Railway…I gave it to you, I remember now. And…what's this?" Russia held up a bit of silver chain.
America took it from him, wound it around his fingers, and mumbled, "You bought me a watch at the end of World War 2. And I figured the watch was probably bugged, so I got rid of it. But I kept the chain."
Russia looked up at him with soft, confused eyes. "Why did you keep all of this?"
"I told you, I keep everything."
"…But why did you keep all of this under your bed?"
America studied the watch chain, and wet his lips, and didn't say anything. After a few seconds, Russia's gaze fell, too.
"Have you been cold today?" Russia asked a minute later.
America shifted his fingers, watched the chain turn in the light, and said, "Not really, why?"
Russia began replacing everything into the box. "I thought, since I was you today, maybe I would be warm."
Oh. America looked at him. "But you're not."
Russia shook his head, eyes downcast.
America slid off the edge of the bed, folded down next to Russia, and put the chain on the night stand. He didn't know why he said it when he murmured, "I'm sorry."
Russia tipped his head an inch to the side, unfocused. "It is not important."
America put a hand on Russia's shoulder and turned him in a little; hesitated, for a second, because God, this was weird; and kissed him. That tangled-up blue light came back on in Russia's eyes, like when America had told him about the chain. His fingers curled around the cuff of America's--Russia's--coat.
"Come on," America urged him with a little smile. "Don't tell me you're not curious."
Russia's eyebrows rose, and a smile of his own trembled to life at the corner of his mouth. "You're serious."
America slid an arm around Russia's waist, plucked another kiss from his lower lip. "What, like you've never wondered what it'd be like to kiss yourself?"
"You are even more narcissistic than I th--" Russia was cut off when America's mouth covered his.
A long, warm, halting minute passed, sharing breath, and tongues, and tentative smiles, every time they broke apart an inch or two to readjust themselves. It…really didn't feel that different; Russia still kissed like Russia.
And when Russia pulled him in, sharp, eyes closed, and pushed America's shoulder blades back against the edge of the bed--that was like Russia, too.
"England said we've got six hours before we switch back," America mumbled, breathless. He picked his glasses off of Russia's face and set them next to the lamp.
Russia nuzzled the bridges of their noses together, kissed him again. He didn't say anything, for a while, he just smiled at him; an inch away, smiling. Then, "You've never lasted six hours before. We should be--"
America elbowed him, hard. Russia just laughed, because in six hours it'd be America who inherited the bruise. So America just kissed him again, and wow--he had soft lips; sort of plush, and full, and warming up, and also from this close up he could really tell--
He giggled. "Wow, you're right. I do have really pretty eyes."
That time it was Russia who cuffed him down, and they grabbed and gasped and giggled their way to the floor. Russia pushed the cardboard box out of the way with his foot.
They were some of the strangest six hours of America's life; but they definitely weren't the worst.
You can look at a directory of all of my Hetalia fic here!
Russia and America spend a day in each other's bodies thanks to a misaimed spell from England.
Genre: ...Slice of someone else's life? XD It's not exactly a comedy, but bits of it are pretty funny I think.
1970s. PG-13.
For not_elven as part of the russiamerica spring fic exchange. ♥
---
The first thing America noticed was how cold it was, for April.
He grumbled, drew his head in under the blankets, and turned over. His breath huffed white clouds under the quilts. Cold pricked at the tips of his ears, turned the air chilly in his lungs, and after five minutes of curling into a tighter and tighter ball until his knees almost touched his chin, he gave up. His eyes opened in the dim hollow under the blankets, and he stuck one arm out of cover to feel around on the night stand for his glasses.
He couldn't find them.
He frowned to himself, felt, felt, felt, things clattered out of the way, something thumped onto the floor--America heaved an exasperated sigh and sat up, shoving the blankets out of the way. Where the hell were his--
Glasses…
Wait a minute.
America sat up a little more and looked around the room. His stomach froze.
Oh, fuck no. Fuck, fuck, fuck no.
He was in…Russia's bedroom. With--absolutely no memory of how he'd got here.
Fuck, he'd promised himself that he'd never let this happen!
He shoved to his feet, wobbled steeply, the floor looked too far away, Jesus, how much did he drink last night? He cast around, hands grabbing at nothing, until he spotted Russia's bathrobe hung over the back of a chair. He threw it on. Fuck. Frost covered up the windowpanes, and he couldn't find his glasses or any of his clothes. He went down on his hands and knees, checked under the bed--nothing--then shook out the blankets, just to make sure. Nothing. God fucking damn it, Russia must have made off with his clothes, and, and left him stranded in his bedroom, and America was gonna have to slink out into the main rooms in a baby blue bath robe and ask to have his clothes back--
America was going to kill him.
He sucked down a deep breath, girded his loins, and fixed on his best what, I don't even know what your problem is smile. Then he walked out of Russia's bedroom and almost knocked over Ukraine.
"S-sorry!" she gasped, her hand over her heart.
"No, my bad, sorry--" America cleared his throat. His voice came out too soft. "Hey, um, this is kind of awkward, but um--" He coughed again. What the hell was going on with his voice? "Look, have you seen Russia?"
Ukraine stopped. Glanced to the side. Smiled uneasily. "Y…yes?"
America waited a few seconds, then tried out the smile again. "Yeah, whereabouts can I find him? I just need to…talk to him for a sec, and then I'll get out of your hair."
Ukraine's expression fixed open in a kind of alarmed amiability. "Ah…he is…here?"
"So like…in his study, or in the--kitchen, or…you don't know. Okay. That's cool. I'll go find him." America edged around her.
Ukraine backed away. "Ah…well, I have many chores today, so…I will just…let you look…for…him."
"Yeah, that's cool…" America watched her disappear back down the hallway at double speed, bemused.
Well, that was weird.
He trotted down the stairs, still trying to clear his throat. Man, sleeping in the cold must've given him laryngitis, or something.
"Good morning, sir," Lithuania offered as America passed the doorway to the laundry. He didn't look up from his ironing.
America brightened. "Hey, Lithuania! Long time no see!"
Lithuania glanced up, tucked his hair behind his ear, and waited.
America tucked his hands in his pockets and leaned back against the lintel. "Man, it feels like I haven't seen you in ages! When's the last time we got a chance to catch up?"
Lithuania's eyes slid a notch closer to blank. "Last…night?"
America stopped. "Oh…sorry." He shifted awkwardly. "I don't really remember anything from, uh, from last night."
Lithuania paused, then gave America a sympathetic smile. "Up late drinking again, sir?"
"Hey, don't--" America pushed off the wall. "--Well, yeah, at least, I think so, but like…you don't have to make it sound like a habit, or anything."
Lithuania looked so confounded that he only remembered to pick up the iron when the shirt he was working on started to smoke.
"Oh, no--ah, sorry, sir--I'll--I'll fix it--" Lithuania tore the shirt off the ironing board and flapped it out, blew on the burn mark frantically.
America tried, "Hey, it's cool, it's not like it's my shirt," but Lithuania wasn't listening to him. "Anyway, I'll…let you get back to your work. Talk to you later?"
"Yes," Lithuania managed, distracted.
America shrugged to himself and kept going down the hallway.
And passed a mirror.
And stopped.
His eyes snapped up and down the hallway, something prickling across the back of his neck. Nobody was coming.
He looked back into the mirror: he stared.
Russia stared back.
It was a long, icy minute before he thought to search himself, patted himself, no, that weight was not his, and--and his hands were too pale; he only just noticed that, his whole body is too pale, it was definitely not the light--and he tore open the baby blue bathrobe and looked at his chest, his stomach, and the scar across his stomach was gone; the long one, from his civil war, but--that scar, the long rake down his chest, he remembered that one. Russia had told him about that one. From when France had invaded with Napoleon.
America bolted into the nearest bathroom and locked the door. His heart hammered.
Just what the fuck was going on?
He patted his hair, rubbed his hands down his arms, and yeah, that was Russia's hair, this was Russia's body. What, what had happened to him?
He braced his hands on the sink, stared into the mirror, and noticed how a cold sweat felt on Russia's skin as he tried to think. He was still trying to think half an hour later, when there came a timid knock on the door.
"Ah…brother?" Ukraine's fragile and hesitant voice. "You have a phone call from America."
America jolted. He opened the door. Ukraine tangled her fingers together. "Thanks," he managed. "I'll take it in here."
Her eyebrows drew together; she looked over his shoulder, at the shower and the toilet. She bit her lip. "Did you…ah…find Russia?"
"Yeah," America said, grim. "He was in the mirror."
Ukraine started to say something, and stopped herself. She withdrew into the living room, and returned a moment later with the heavy black phone held against her bosom like a shield. The cord stretched out around the corner. America accepted the phone, brought it into the bathroom, and shut the door.
"Hi," he said, too loud, as soon as he got the receiver pinned between his shoulder and his chin.
There was a little hesitation before he heard, in his own voice, "…America?"
"Where did you put my clothes?" America burst out, and a second later he realized that that made no sense, at all, but it was the first thing he'd been primed to say to Russia, and he thought he was maybe kind of freaking out, and--
There was another pause, and then, "This is Russia."
"This had better fucking be Russia!" America gripped the mouthpiece. "What the fuck is going on? Did you do this? Did your KGB assholes come up with some crazy fucking body-swapping drug, because I swear to God--"
"Is this America?"
"Yes this is America!"
"America, you need to calm down," Russia said, clear and firm, and God, it was so weird to hear his own voice coming from somewhere other than himself. "We have changed places."
"Did you do this?" America demanded again.
"I am as surprised as you are. We both need to be calm."
America took a deep breath, and another deep breath, and tried in his calmest voice, "What the fuck do you think is going on?"
"I have no idea," Russia replied. "Maybe England."
"What does England have to do with anything?" America hunched over the sink and stared into the bathroom mirror.
"He has caused accidents before, during his--"
"--Is this going to be, like, fairy bullshit? Because England keeps talking about his fairies, and I keep telling him 'dude you have got a serious screw loose,' and he--"
"Unfortunately, when I called him, his line was busy," Russia interrupted.
"Well, that's just great."
"So I recommend," Russia went on, "That we both stay where we are, and try not to talk to too many people. We will wait until we can reach England. I will continue calling him. He is more likely to pick up a call from your number than he is from mine."
"No kidding." America pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Are we agreed? --We will both stay at home, and try not to cause a disturbance. I am sure we would both like to return to our own bodies as quietly as possible."
America let out a long breath and let his shoulders drop a few inches. "Yeah. Okay. That sounds smart."
"Good. I will call you again as soon as I know more."
"Yeah," America exhaled.
The line clicked.
America made his cautious way into the living room and returned the phone to the end table. Ukraine, Lithuania, Estonia, and Poland were all gathered around the sofa, staring at him. Lithuania and Poland were whispering to each other.
"Uh, hey." America gave a jerky little wave.
More staring, and the whispering stopped.
"I'm gonna…go get dressed." America edged back towards the door.
Poland gave him a huge, fake smile and two big thumbs up. "Awesome news, boss!"
As America withdrew up the stairs, he heard, "Wow, you were right--Russia is totally having one of those days."
---
America spent almost an hour in Russia's study, loitering and nervous, before he jerked upright and groaned "I am a fucking idiot" and ran out of the house.
---
He found Russia on his way out of the Pentagon, wearing America's body, America's glasses, and America's best fucking suit. He carried a leather briefcase creaking full of what America was certain were the capital-C Classified kind of classified documents.
"I knew it," America accused.
Russia stopped on the stairs as the door chunked shut behind him. He gave America a mild look. "Oh…I wasn't expecting to see you here, Ivan."
America shook his head and pointed to the ground at Russia's feet. "Put down the briefcase."
"You know, you have such a helpful Secretary of Defense--" Russia looked over his shoulder to the door. "I just got out of a meeting with him."
"Put down the briefcase, or I swear to God."
"You swear what?" Russia gave him wide eyes, all innocence, the briefcase handle clasped delicately with both hands. "What will you do? Try to take it off of me? In front of your own department of defense?"
America swallowed, and grimaced, and felt two dozen cameras burning into the back of his neck.
"I think everyone in this city knows Alfred Jones," Russia went on. He nudged up his glasses--America's glasses. "What do you think would happen?"
"Russia, just…put down the goddamn briefcase? And stop being a dick?"
"It's only a little light reading," Russia demurred. "Until we can get in touch with England."
America planted one hand on his hip and scrubbed the other hand through his hair. "You are fucking loving this, aren't you. This must be like somebody handed you the key to Fort Knox."
"Oh…" Russia's gaze went a little distant, and a dreamy smile floated across his mouth. "I think I could get that, too."
"Cute," America ground out. "Look, how about we…make a deal."
"What kind of deal?" Russia's attention flickered back to America.
"I won't totally exploit this situation if you won't?" America suggested. The wind tugged at the tails of his scarf, and he smoothed them down.
Russia inquired, "How would you exploit this situation? Do you know a single one of my passcodes?"
"No, but neither do…you, and…you still…got all of this…" America trailed off as Russia began to smirk. "Oh, fuck you, you spying…fucking…spy." That smirk widened, and America told himself to remember never to smirk like that; that was not one of his better looks. "Okay, asshole, how about a different deal--"
"--I'm listening--"
"--How about you put down the briefcase, or I go straight back to your house and make out with Belarus."
It took Russia a few seconds to work through that. He blanched.
"Because when we switch back--" America started.
"I understand," Russia cut in. He hesitated, and his fingers twitched around the briefcase's handle, and then he set the briefcase down on the Pentagon steps.
"Good." America grabbed Russia by the wrist--his wrist--and dragged him down into the parking lot. "Now I'm not gonna let you out of my sight. Come on, I'm hungry."
---
They went to America's favorite diner. America ordered a hamburger. Russia got the soup. The waitress gave him a strange look.
"I always get the hamburger," America explained as she walked away. He tried to cross his legs under the table, and bumped his knee. God, there sure was enough of Russia to keep track of.
Russia pushed away the beer menu and replied, "That would be why my sinuses feel like a grease spill."
"Those are my sinuses. --And they don't feel like--" America started to unravel Russia's scarf and was stopped when Russia shot half to his feet, leaned across the table, and put out one hand.
America gave him a blank and expectant look. "What."
"Leave it on," Russia asked, soft.
America glanced around the diner. Nobody was paying them any attention. He unwound the scarf again and draped it over the back of the booth. "Russia, I don't know how to tell you this, but--nobody here gives a shit about your scars."
A flinch went through the corners of Russia's eyes, and that was an expression America had seen before: it was hidden better, on his face, behind the glasses and shielded by darker eyelashes. Russia's gaze dropped to the tabletop, and his fingers curled around the corners of his napkin. "Please just put it back on."
A long, too-quiet moment passed, in which America became aware of the clatter of the dishwasher from the kitchen, and the smell of cinnamon and patchouli as the aromas from the bakery counter mingled with the hot specials…and then he took up the scarf and wound it back around his neck, muttering "You are too neurotic to live, I swear to God."
Russia relaxed.
America rearranged his fork and knife, chewed on the inside of his lip, and felt too big, wedged into his side of the booth. After a minute, he huffed, "So now what."
Russia shrugged. It flickered through America's mind that that really was a nice suit. It rose and dropped on his shoulders in clean, crisp lines, and Russia leaned forward and draped an arm over the table and made the light strike the side of his face so that oh God stop checking yourself out. "I still think England is responsible. He will probably contact us."
America reined himself in, met Russia's--his--eyes. "So, did you really call him?"
Russia paused.
"Yeah," America sighed. "I figured."
"We will call him when we go home, yes? --Since you said you would be following me." Russia laced his hands on the table, tugged at the corner of his napkin.
"Goddamn right I'm gonna be following--oh hey, thanks." He flashed a smile to the waitress as she set down his basket of fries. Russia ignored her. She gave both of them a strange look before retreating to the kitchen.
A minute passed, as America drenched his french fries in oil and salt and ketchup, and Russia looked out the window. America only glanced up from his work when Russia mused, "It was so quiet in your house this morning. How do you sleep, with no one around?"
America propped his chin on his hand and popped a fry into his mouth. "Mm dunno, I just, sleep. I've always been on my own, pretty much."
Russia made a soft sound of acknowledgment, and murmured, "I lived alone for a while when I was young…I didn't like it."
America just watched him, for a while, and Russia didn't seem inclined to say anything else, and the mood had gone all quiet and off-white. America broke it with a grin. "So, how long did it take you to figure out what had happened, when you woke up?"
Russia canted his head. "I realized it right away, of course." There was a question in his voice.
"…Seriously?" America tried to cross his legs again. Banged his knee. His fork skidded off the edge of the table, and he grabbed for it.
"Yes. …Why, how long did you--"
"Oh, yeah," America assured him, and flicked his hair back, even though he didn't have any hair to flick back, because Russia's hair was shorter around the front, but whatever. "Right away. First thing."
A furrow appeared between Russia's eyebrows, and he started to speak, so America cut him off. "Hey, so, like--look, did you look at me naked this morning?"
Russia's expression sank even deeper into perplexity. "What? I--I have seen you naked before, America."
America flapped his hand impatiently. "Yeah, but like, that was with my permission! And I was there! It's totally different."
"…I didn't look at you naked."
"Bullshit, you totally did."
Russia opened his mouth, closed it, and frowned. "I had other things on my mind, you realize--"
"Dude, it's cool, I mean, you can admit it; you totally looked at me naked." America straightened out his cuffs. "I mean, it's all right. Who wouldn't. If you just, you know, had an opportunity like that drop into your lap. …My lap."
Russia waited a few seconds to see if America was done, and then repeated, patient: "I didn't look at you naked."
America's face fell. "Well why not?"
Russia shut his eyes. "…Maybe I glanced--"
"I knew it!"
"While I was getting dressed--"
"I fucking knew it--"
They were still carrying on when the waitress brought them their food.
---
The phone was ringing when they came through the door to America's house. America crossed to the kitchen and picked it up without thinking. "Sup."
"--It's about bloody time, I've been trying to reach you all day, where have you been?"
"Hi, England." America tipped his hip against the wall.
"--Russia? Is that you?" That tinny, incredulous tone, of England bringing himself up short. America rolled his eyes to the ceiling.
"No, it's America. I'm just, you know, I'm kinda not feeling myself today--"
"Right," England declared, and heaved a gust of relief. "Listen, in that case--where is, ah…where is Russia?"
"He's right--" America looked around. "Oh, I thought he was right behind me…" A door closed overhead. "He's upstairs."
"You see, the thing is, I ah--there was a bit of a--of an accident--"
"Oh, it had better have been a fucking accident," America started.
"It was, I assure you it was," England jumped in. "I had…actually been trying to change France's place with a toadstool, but I must have mixed up my filing…"
"Whatever," America dismissed. "England. Just. How do we fix it."
"Well, there's no way to reverse the spell, exactly--"
"Bad answer, England--"
"--But the effect only lasts for a day," England finished. "You should only have…six more hours of this, I think."
America rucked his hand through his hair--and got distracted, for the fifth or sixth time since he'd gotten up, because, wow, Russia's hair really was soft. "Six hours. Okay. Well, that's good news."
"I suspected it might be." England paused. "You know, there is a bright side to all this. From my perspective."
America mouthed Figures and said "I'm all ears."
"At the very least--you must admit now that magic is real."
"No," America returned.
"But--"
America hung up.
He made his way up to the second floor: the stairs creaked under Russia's feet more than they ever did under his. The bedroom door was open. Light fell into the hallway. America went in.
Russia sat on the floor next to America's bed, a cardboard box pulled out beside him. America blushed.
"You kept all this," Russia said, soft.
America's voice came out too loud. "Look don't act like it's a big deal or anything--" He wavered a few steps into the room.
"These are the…letters I sent you during your civil war…" Russia set them gently aside, fingertips caressing the ribbon they'd been tied in. "This is the--hammer from the dedication ceremony for--"
"--Because seriously, I keep everything, I mean, seriously, if you wanted to check out my storage room there's like--" America sank down on the edge of the bed.
"--the Trans-Siberian Railway…I gave it to you, I remember now. And…what's this?" Russia held up a bit of silver chain.
America took it from him, wound it around his fingers, and mumbled, "You bought me a watch at the end of World War 2. And I figured the watch was probably bugged, so I got rid of it. But I kept the chain."
Russia looked up at him with soft, confused eyes. "Why did you keep all of this?"
"I told you, I keep everything."
"…But why did you keep all of this under your bed?"
America studied the watch chain, and wet his lips, and didn't say anything. After a few seconds, Russia's gaze fell, too.
"Have you been cold today?" Russia asked a minute later.
America shifted his fingers, watched the chain turn in the light, and said, "Not really, why?"
Russia began replacing everything into the box. "I thought, since I was you today, maybe I would be warm."
Oh. America looked at him. "But you're not."
Russia shook his head, eyes downcast.
America slid off the edge of the bed, folded down next to Russia, and put the chain on the night stand. He didn't know why he said it when he murmured, "I'm sorry."
Russia tipped his head an inch to the side, unfocused. "It is not important."
America put a hand on Russia's shoulder and turned him in a little; hesitated, for a second, because God, this was weird; and kissed him. That tangled-up blue light came back on in Russia's eyes, like when America had told him about the chain. His fingers curled around the cuff of America's--Russia's--coat.
"Come on," America urged him with a little smile. "Don't tell me you're not curious."
Russia's eyebrows rose, and a smile of his own trembled to life at the corner of his mouth. "You're serious."
America slid an arm around Russia's waist, plucked another kiss from his lower lip. "What, like you've never wondered what it'd be like to kiss yourself?"
"You are even more narcissistic than I th--" Russia was cut off when America's mouth covered his.
A long, warm, halting minute passed, sharing breath, and tongues, and tentative smiles, every time they broke apart an inch or two to readjust themselves. It…really didn't feel that different; Russia still kissed like Russia.
And when Russia pulled him in, sharp, eyes closed, and pushed America's shoulder blades back against the edge of the bed--that was like Russia, too.
"England said we've got six hours before we switch back," America mumbled, breathless. He picked his glasses off of Russia's face and set them next to the lamp.
Russia nuzzled the bridges of their noses together, kissed him again. He didn't say anything, for a while, he just smiled at him; an inch away, smiling. Then, "You've never lasted six hours before. We should be--"
America elbowed him, hard. Russia just laughed, because in six hours it'd be America who inherited the bruise. So America just kissed him again, and wow--he had soft lips; sort of plush, and full, and warming up, and also from this close up he could really tell--
He giggled. "Wow, you're right. I do have really pretty eyes."
That time it was Russia who cuffed him down, and they grabbed and gasped and giggled their way to the floor. Russia pushed the cardboard box out of the way with his foot.
They were some of the strangest six hours of America's life; but they definitely weren't the worst.
You can look at a directory of all of my Hetalia fic here!