42 - The Thaw
Title: The Thaw
Characters: Russia/America.
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: The boys 'reduce the barriers to international understanding and cooperation' at the 1955 Geneva Summit, if you know what I mean. (Okay, don't get your hopes up that high. It's still only PG-13.)
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
Switzerland's house. July 18, 1955.
Trick it had to be a trick it was a trick he wouldn't / Russia didn't / but he showed his neck I mean right there in public in front of all those people he showed his / trick it was a trick Russia hated him hated him hated him / fucking communists, they did this to him / beautiful Russia / no no nonoNONONO--
Okay, so--
It was time to make nice with the Soviets.
America glanced out the guest room window, across the cresting Alps.
That's what everybody kept saying. That's what Eisenhower was saying. It was even what France and England were saying, and it was what Switzerland had said, too, when the four of them (America, France, England, and Russia an hour later) had arrived at his house (although he had put it more like "Cause any trouble and I'll shoot you"). America had heard 'go and play nice with Russia' from pretty much everybody he knew, all month, and he was tired of it, and he didn't want to play nice with Russia, but...but...
He pushed in his sock drawer and kicked his empty suitcase under the bed.
Switzerland's house was really clean.
He wandered out of his room and drummed down the stairs. "England!" he called. "France!" He hesitated. Be diplomatic, be diplomatic... "R-Russia! When are we gonna go get dinner, do we have time to go look around first, because the view out here is totally amazing and I wanted to--" he stopped.
A stream of golden light flooded through the open front door and across the carpet, and the air was opaque with smoke. "They've left."
Russia's voice.
America followed the stink of cheap cigarettes out to the porch. He shut the door. "Switzerland's gonna put a round through your skull if you make his living room smell like an ashtray," he informed him.
Russia made a quiet humming sound and took another drag. He blew a stream of smoke out at the clear peaks of the mountains in the distance. "England and France have gone," he said again. "They wanted to see Geneva."
"Oh." America looked down the path towards the driveway. "Are they gonna come back and meet us for dinner, or, like...what? Did they say?"
"France said he'd come back to help cook. Well, 'to save us from ourselves.'" Russia shifted the smoldering butt to his right hand, took one last puff, and then crushed it out against the door frame. He kept the thing cradled in his hand once it was extinguished. "It's just you and me, I'm afraid."
"Oh," America said again. Looked at the white painted plankings. Scratched his nose. "Well, that's okay, I mean...we're here to be diplomatic, right?" When that met with no response, America struck his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "So, I was gonna go for a walk." The next part hurt to say. He hated diplomacy. "D-did you want to come?"
Russia lifted an eyebrow. "With you?"
America worked his jaw.
Russia looked out over the yard, at the dirt path trundling off into the woods, broken pebbles gleaming with the pallid shine of almost-sunset. "All right."
The cigarette butt went into the pocket of his coat. They made it to the tree line in peace and silence, without looking at each other. Tree roots limned the narrow path as it led up into the mountains.
America tried to think of something to say.
"So my boss says we should try and get along better." Maybe a little blunt.
"I got the impression that that was why we were all at this conference in the first place," Russia replied. He ducked under a low-hanging branch. "Or do you mean the two of us specifically?"
"I mean us. Like. In general. The two of us. Like...maybe we should try and trade, and...not kill each other. And stuff." America stared off through the trees and blinked against the low-caught sunlight.
Russia stepped over a spray of mushrooms growing up in the middle of the path. "My boss has asked me to try and be a little more...diplomatic." He started to say more, hesitated, met America's eyes, only for a moment, some fainter expression hiding under his face, and then he fell silent, and rubbed the back of his neck.
Their shoulders bumped. It was an accident. All the words seized up in America's head.
The last time he had seen Russia face to face--nothing had happened. Just bitching, threats, insults, the usual, but nothing had really happened. Same with the time before that, and the time before that. But if he kept pushing his memory back, to the bewildering encounter at NATO HQ, when Russia had pinned him to the wall and breathed on his neck and--
Every time he'd seen Russia since then, he'd woken up in the middle of the night after dreaming about cold breath against his skin, and he--he--
Didn't know why.
Russia's hand dropped from his neck to his shoulder, hovered briefly before dropping back to his side. He flicked a look over at America out of the corner of his eye; it lasted all of half a second. His throat jumped against fabric as he swallowed. "We're being diplomatic now. A walk in the woods. I'm sure our bosses would be very proud."
America found his voice. "W-we should get somebody to take a picture or something. 'Look, we're behaving.'" A weak laugh. Sunlight cut across Russia's face, shoulders, hair, and then faded out behind the branches again; he caught himself staring. He snapped his gaze down to the root-twisted path ahead of them.
"No one would believe it," Russia murmured. His breath came a little loud. He squinted in the late light, wet his lips. His hands slid into his coat pockets and made fists.
They walked in silence for half a minute. America scanned the air. The inside of his head was going hot and tight and red and totally empty of anything useful to say. "McCarthy got censured," he offered. "I, uh...I don't know what got into me, there for a while. I...um. I guess I was...a little hard to deal with...um."
A pause. "Well, you said yourself he wouldn't last long. ...You remember, when we met in Nebraska?" It wasn't a real question, and Russia's voice went dark; rough. Almost a--a purr. "But it's good to know that your people have come to their senses."
The memory of what had happened in Nebraska arrived with so much force it was a physical thing: America tripped half a step. "Yeah," he muttered, gaze fixed down. "I remember Nebraska."
And then he noticed Russia's hand, halfway out of his pocket: frozen, now, but reached out to steady him.
America stopped. Looked up at the other nation. When Russia paused, looked back at him, America got out, "I-I still don't like you. Or communism. Fuck communism. But...but, um." He worked his fingers deeper in his pockets.
"And I've never liked you. Or your ideology." Russia waited a beat, and then dragged his hands out of his coat. His next breath made his entire body tremble.
"But...we're, uh, we're supposed to...try to get along," America breathed. "I mean...a little better, anyway. Than we--have been." Russia was--just a foot away, not even, he was-- "Which sucks, because I seriously can't stand you, but like...You know...we should try..."
"I understand," Russia's eyes crept over him.
And then he reached out, so slowly, and curled his first two fingers into the front pocket of America's jeans. Their skin brushed, sudden and whitehot.
Something spasmed in America's stomach, flew up his spine. He grabbed Russia's face between his hands and dragged him down into a crushing kiss. Russia clenched him in, and they staggered back over uneven ground and knotted tree roots until America's shoulderblades hit the trunk of the tree behind him, and Russia could brace a wide hand hard beside his head. He wrapped his other arm around America's ribs and bore him up against his mouth.
"Oh God--" America groaned, jerked his hand into Russia's hair and squeezed it, crushed it between his fingers-- "Gorgeous--gorgeous--" He forced his other arm around Russia's waist and hauled their bodies into a hot, pounding line.
Russia's fingers clawed under the hem of America's shirt, raked into the small of his back. He jerked their mouths apart to fasten his teeth against America's hammering pulse, to press his lips against it. "Yes--"
America gasped, short, sharp, and stared up at the broken sunlight split between the branches of the trees. Russia, Russia ground against him, from collarbone to knee, God, his solid, heavy hips, those giant hands, Russia... America wrapped both arms around Russia's wide back and clung, breathed in the smell of Russia's hair, and his heart was beatingandbeatingandbeating... His fingers crept under Russia's shirt, across that, please, skin, he hadn't seen it in almost ten years, which was, which was--it was insane.
It was beyond endurance.
Russia let out a sharp whimper and wrenched his hand away from the tree trunk; he fit his palm against America's face instead. He kept urging him into the kiss, deeper, deeper, until neither of them could breathe, America was suffocating and red, yes, God, please... Russia's fingertips slid into the groove behind America's jaw, and rubbed that turn of bone like they had always been there. It was delirium, cold and sweet and heavy, as they worked their bodies together. America's heart seized when he broke the kiss--no don't stop he'll come to his senses and then--and peeled Russia's shirt up, off, just looked at him.
Russia stared at him with wild eyes, his pale chest rising and falling in huge, uneven gasps. He licked his lips over and over again, quickly at first, then slowing, tasting America. There was something so foreign in his expression, a raw slash of vulnerability. He was trembling.
America dropped to his knees. The roots hurt. He looked up, and the faded sun dappled through the canopy and set a glow upon Russia's nose, his long eyelashes, the crests of his cheekbones. America stared at him, something so...violent lashing under his ribs, and so...so bright...
He caught Russia's fingertips, tugged them. A plea. Come here. Russia's fingers twitched against his palm, and then he sank down beside him, wrapped his arms around America's shoulders. A hesitation, and then Russia nuzzled the sides of their heads together.
America breathed out for what felt like the first time in ten years.
He draped loose and warm around Russia's body, limber, like a spring inside him had come unwound. A shuddering breath: and then he pressed a tender kiss into Russia's hair. Russia went soft and heavy in his arms and tipped his forehead against America's shoulder.
America touched a kiss behind his ear, and Russia's fingertips prickled over his back. He turned his head into the cradle of America's shoulder, offering up the same spot for another kiss. America smiled and shut his eyes; it hurt. He nuzzled in behind Russia's ear. Russia liked that spot; America had found it in 1922 and rediscovered it in 1943 and now he could feel Russia twitch in his arms again, that little twitch, like America had given him a static shock in that hollow at the base of his skull.
Their fingertips explored each other, into every new mark and familiar hollow.
"Hey," America whispered, after an endless golden interval.
Russia quivered like a startled deer. "...Hey." Every line of his body was smooth and sweet in America's embrace.
"These new guys you've got in." America touched his lips to that spot again; held Russia in, gentle, tighter, as he nudged into it. "Bulganin and Khrushchev...they treating you okay?"
"Yes. They're both good men." A silence, and Russia flushed. "They haven't laid a hand on me, if that's what you mean."
"That's what I meant," America exhaled, and he gathered Russia in again against his chest, their legs all tangling together.
"It wasn't ever unbearable," Russia mumbled against America's collarbone.
"Nothing is unbearable to you," America murmured. He felt up the tender sweep of Russia's back with his fingertips.
Russia was silent. He pressed a single, flush kiss up through the fabric of America's shirt. "Not important" filtered faintly upwards.
America nuzzled his cheek against Russia's hair. He felt...he felt light-headed. "It's okay," he whispered, "We don't have to talk about it. I just wanted to make sure."
Russia tugged open the first button of America's shirt collar and traced his tongue over the exposed skin, secure in the dark hollow between their bodies.
"Didn't miss this, you know," Russia mumbled after a while. A nuzzle. "I didn't miss it at all..." His palm fit sweetly around the peak of America's hip.
"Me neither." A violent shiver went through America's heart. "Y-you're just...just a..."
"A thug..." Russia kissed across America's lower lip. "And you're an--an...arrogant, m-materialistic--ahh--" America brushed another kiss behind his ear. "Brat," he finally managed. His fingertips fluttered under America's clothes.
"You're not a thug..." America stripped off his own shirt, let his glasses get carried away in the collar, dropped both in the hollow between two roots. He caught Russia as Russia sank back into him. He nudged them together, felt skin slip against skin and whispered, "You're beautiful..."
The corner of Russia's mouth twisted like it always used to, when America said things like that. "Still a bad liar..." But he nuzzled the wide planes of his body into America's, regardless, began a small, tender line of kisses in the hollow of America's newly-bared left shoulder.
America took hitching breaths. "I'd...um...like it, if we could...try and...get along better."
Russia nipped at the knob of America's collarbone. "It...It might not be as...as hard as I thought." He didn't meet America's eyes.
America turned up Russia's chin with crooked fingers and touched a kiss to his mouth. Russia quavered against him, then leaned in and flicked their tongues together.
America felt...he had never felt so relieved.
Around them, the forest had darkened, and the dirt path had gone cold.
Russia held America in tight. "We can't...We can't do this again...can we?" He scrambled closer, half in America's lap, and let out a weak breath.
America shut his eyes, felt his heart pound, and wet his lips. "Maybe we can." He cinched his arms around Russia's hips, held him in snug. "I don't...I don't know, I mean...if we can...make things better, then--"
"Better? Do you think that's--possible?" Russia rested his head in America's shoulder again, and his eyelashes brushed over the curve of his neck every time he blinked. One of his arms dropped to cover America's on his hips.
America's stomach seized, seized, seized on every heartbeat. "W-why not? Our...our bosses want us to get closer now...right?"
Russia kissed his pulse again, soft, openmouthed. "Yes," he murmured. "But...But we're...still at war." He sounded so lost. "I don't know how we're supposed to--"
"But we're not at war at war, we're just..." America pressed a sharp kiss behind Russia's ear and combed his hair back. "The war is all in our heads."
Russia buckled under that kiss, gripped America for support. "But what about everyone else? Our--Our bosses and our reporters and our w-workers and our people? It's in their heads, too! I can't just make that go away with--with this! My boss and my country do what they want, I'm incidental!"
America felt a stab of bewilderment. He drew back and cupped Russia's jaw between his hands, rested the tips of their noses together, and stared into him. "'Your country?' Russia...you're your country. You're not incidental. The...fuck..." his lips moved as he lined up all those syllables. "The Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic...that's you." He twined the tips of his fingers into Russia's hair. "You're not some whipped dog, beautiful. You're more than any of them."
"But--" Russia shut his lips tight, didn't let another syllable crawl out for a long time. He stared helplessly into America's eyes, nuzzled his face against America's hands. He was shivering again, like he was getting sick. "I...I still can't change their minds."
"You don't have to." America caressed his hair back. "Just change yours."
Russia went still. He fastened his eyes on the trunk of the tree just over America's shoulder. "I don't...I don't think I can." A flinch opened in his eyes.
That look broke his heart. America kissed Russia's forehead. "Hey, that's what we're at Swiss's house for, right?" A shrug of a smile. "Everybody knew neither of us were gonna make any changes on this trip, we just..." He tugged at the ends of Russia's hair. "We were just supposed to, um, melt the ice a little bit. Change will...change will come later. If we both want it to. And we try."
Russia nudged his head back into America's hand in a nod, and was quiet for a moment. Then, "We should go back before the others come looking for us. I don't think they n-need to see this..." The frown lines America kissed away had returned. "It'll...make things...complicated..."
America had a pretty good idea that this was already complicated. Actually, he was pretty sure things had been complicated since about World War 1. He nodded, started to rise, then tangled his hands into Russia and pulled him back down again. "Russia--Russia--you know I care about you, right?" He searched his eyes. "I mean--a whole lot. No matter what--happens, or--what we say, or--you know, right?"
Russia gave him a flickering, confused look. "You...you do?"
America felt a hot surge from his heart, and he pulled Russia in for a warm, flush kiss. Russia made a quiet noise and melted in against him. His fingers combed haltingly back into America's hair.
America's eyes were warm when they broke. "Okay. Come on."
They both staggered and clung to one another as they got to their feet, legs numb from pressing into the ground, and got dressed in silence. Russia stumbled his fingers into America's when they steadied out, and he gave America a hesitant, crooked smile.
They were still smiling by the time they reached the house.
+++
-- The purpose of the Geneva Summit was to reduce international tensions and lay the foundations for future friendship between the 'Big Four' (and primarily the United States and the Soviet Union). While many issues were discussed, the goal was not so much to arrive at any specific resolutions, but to lower the barriers to international understanding and cooperation. The conference marked the beginning of an era of renewed optimism in US-USSR relations.
+++
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Got something to say to the boys about what just went down? Shoot them a letter.
This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.
Characters: Russia/America.
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: The boys 'reduce the barriers to international understanding and cooperation' at the 1955 Geneva Summit, if you know what I mean. (Okay, don't get your hopes up that high. It's still only PG-13.)
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
Switzerland's house. July 18, 1955.
Trick it had to be a trick it was a trick he wouldn't / Russia didn't / but he showed his neck I mean right there in public in front of all those people he showed his / trick it was a trick Russia hated him hated him hated him / fucking communists, they did this to him / beautiful Russia / no no nonoNONONO--
Okay, so--
It was time to make nice with the Soviets.
America glanced out the guest room window, across the cresting Alps.
That's what everybody kept saying. That's what Eisenhower was saying. It was even what France and England were saying, and it was what Switzerland had said, too, when the four of them (America, France, England, and Russia an hour later) had arrived at his house (although he had put it more like "Cause any trouble and I'll shoot you"). America had heard 'go and play nice with Russia' from pretty much everybody he knew, all month, and he was tired of it, and he didn't want to play nice with Russia, but...but...
He pushed in his sock drawer and kicked his empty suitcase under the bed.
Switzerland's house was really clean.
He wandered out of his room and drummed down the stairs. "England!" he called. "France!" He hesitated. Be diplomatic, be diplomatic... "R-Russia! When are we gonna go get dinner, do we have time to go look around first, because the view out here is totally amazing and I wanted to--" he stopped.
A stream of golden light flooded through the open front door and across the carpet, and the air was opaque with smoke. "They've left."
Russia's voice.
America followed the stink of cheap cigarettes out to the porch. He shut the door. "Switzerland's gonna put a round through your skull if you make his living room smell like an ashtray," he informed him.
Russia made a quiet humming sound and took another drag. He blew a stream of smoke out at the clear peaks of the mountains in the distance. "England and France have gone," he said again. "They wanted to see Geneva."
"Oh." America looked down the path towards the driveway. "Are they gonna come back and meet us for dinner, or, like...what? Did they say?"
"France said he'd come back to help cook. Well, 'to save us from ourselves.'" Russia shifted the smoldering butt to his right hand, took one last puff, and then crushed it out against the door frame. He kept the thing cradled in his hand once it was extinguished. "It's just you and me, I'm afraid."
"Oh," America said again. Looked at the white painted plankings. Scratched his nose. "Well, that's okay, I mean...we're here to be diplomatic, right?" When that met with no response, America struck his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "So, I was gonna go for a walk." The next part hurt to say. He hated diplomacy. "D-did you want to come?"
Russia lifted an eyebrow. "With you?"
America worked his jaw.
Russia looked out over the yard, at the dirt path trundling off into the woods, broken pebbles gleaming with the pallid shine of almost-sunset. "All right."
The cigarette butt went into the pocket of his coat. They made it to the tree line in peace and silence, without looking at each other. Tree roots limned the narrow path as it led up into the mountains.
America tried to think of something to say.
"So my boss says we should try and get along better." Maybe a little blunt.
"I got the impression that that was why we were all at this conference in the first place," Russia replied. He ducked under a low-hanging branch. "Or do you mean the two of us specifically?"
"I mean us. Like. In general. The two of us. Like...maybe we should try and trade, and...not kill each other. And stuff." America stared off through the trees and blinked against the low-caught sunlight.
Russia stepped over a spray of mushrooms growing up in the middle of the path. "My boss has asked me to try and be a little more...diplomatic." He started to say more, hesitated, met America's eyes, only for a moment, some fainter expression hiding under his face, and then he fell silent, and rubbed the back of his neck.
Their shoulders bumped. It was an accident. All the words seized up in America's head.
The last time he had seen Russia face to face--nothing had happened. Just bitching, threats, insults, the usual, but nothing had really happened. Same with the time before that, and the time before that. But if he kept pushing his memory back, to the bewildering encounter at NATO HQ, when Russia had pinned him to the wall and breathed on his neck and--
Every time he'd seen Russia since then, he'd woken up in the middle of the night after dreaming about cold breath against his skin, and he--he--
Didn't know why.
Russia's hand dropped from his neck to his shoulder, hovered briefly before dropping back to his side. He flicked a look over at America out of the corner of his eye; it lasted all of half a second. His throat jumped against fabric as he swallowed. "We're being diplomatic now. A walk in the woods. I'm sure our bosses would be very proud."
America found his voice. "W-we should get somebody to take a picture or something. 'Look, we're behaving.'" A weak laugh. Sunlight cut across Russia's face, shoulders, hair, and then faded out behind the branches again; he caught himself staring. He snapped his gaze down to the root-twisted path ahead of them.
"No one would believe it," Russia murmured. His breath came a little loud. He squinted in the late light, wet his lips. His hands slid into his coat pockets and made fists.
They walked in silence for half a minute. America scanned the air. The inside of his head was going hot and tight and red and totally empty of anything useful to say. "McCarthy got censured," he offered. "I, uh...I don't know what got into me, there for a while. I...um. I guess I was...a little hard to deal with...um."
A pause. "Well, you said yourself he wouldn't last long. ...You remember, when we met in Nebraska?" It wasn't a real question, and Russia's voice went dark; rough. Almost a--a purr. "But it's good to know that your people have come to their senses."
The memory of what had happened in Nebraska arrived with so much force it was a physical thing: America tripped half a step. "Yeah," he muttered, gaze fixed down. "I remember Nebraska."
And then he noticed Russia's hand, halfway out of his pocket: frozen, now, but reached out to steady him.
America stopped. Looked up at the other nation. When Russia paused, looked back at him, America got out, "I-I still don't like you. Or communism. Fuck communism. But...but, um." He worked his fingers deeper in his pockets.
"And I've never liked you. Or your ideology." Russia waited a beat, and then dragged his hands out of his coat. His next breath made his entire body tremble.
"But...we're, uh, we're supposed to...try to get along," America breathed. "I mean...a little better, anyway. Than we--have been." Russia was--just a foot away, not even, he was-- "Which sucks, because I seriously can't stand you, but like...You know...we should try..."
"I understand," Russia's eyes crept over him.
And then he reached out, so slowly, and curled his first two fingers into the front pocket of America's jeans. Their skin brushed, sudden and whitehot.
Something spasmed in America's stomach, flew up his spine. He grabbed Russia's face between his hands and dragged him down into a crushing kiss. Russia clenched him in, and they staggered back over uneven ground and knotted tree roots until America's shoulderblades hit the trunk of the tree behind him, and Russia could brace a wide hand hard beside his head. He wrapped his other arm around America's ribs and bore him up against his mouth.
"Oh God--" America groaned, jerked his hand into Russia's hair and squeezed it, crushed it between his fingers-- "Gorgeous--gorgeous--" He forced his other arm around Russia's waist and hauled their bodies into a hot, pounding line.
Russia's fingers clawed under the hem of America's shirt, raked into the small of his back. He jerked their mouths apart to fasten his teeth against America's hammering pulse, to press his lips against it. "Yes--"
America gasped, short, sharp, and stared up at the broken sunlight split between the branches of the trees. Russia, Russia ground against him, from collarbone to knee, God, his solid, heavy hips, those giant hands, Russia... America wrapped both arms around Russia's wide back and clung, breathed in the smell of Russia's hair, and his heart was beatingandbeatingandbeating... His fingers crept under Russia's shirt, across that, please, skin, he hadn't seen it in almost ten years, which was, which was--it was insane.
It was beyond endurance.
Russia let out a sharp whimper and wrenched his hand away from the tree trunk; he fit his palm against America's face instead. He kept urging him into the kiss, deeper, deeper, until neither of them could breathe, America was suffocating and red, yes, God, please... Russia's fingertips slid into the groove behind America's jaw, and rubbed that turn of bone like they had always been there. It was delirium, cold and sweet and heavy, as they worked their bodies together. America's heart seized when he broke the kiss--no don't stop he'll come to his senses and then--and peeled Russia's shirt up, off, just looked at him.
Russia stared at him with wild eyes, his pale chest rising and falling in huge, uneven gasps. He licked his lips over and over again, quickly at first, then slowing, tasting America. There was something so foreign in his expression, a raw slash of vulnerability. He was trembling.
America dropped to his knees. The roots hurt. He looked up, and the faded sun dappled through the canopy and set a glow upon Russia's nose, his long eyelashes, the crests of his cheekbones. America stared at him, something so...violent lashing under his ribs, and so...so bright...
He caught Russia's fingertips, tugged them. A plea. Come here. Russia's fingers twitched against his palm, and then he sank down beside him, wrapped his arms around America's shoulders. A hesitation, and then Russia nuzzled the sides of their heads together.
America breathed out for what felt like the first time in ten years.
He draped loose and warm around Russia's body, limber, like a spring inside him had come unwound. A shuddering breath: and then he pressed a tender kiss into Russia's hair. Russia went soft and heavy in his arms and tipped his forehead against America's shoulder.
America touched a kiss behind his ear, and Russia's fingertips prickled over his back. He turned his head into the cradle of America's shoulder, offering up the same spot for another kiss. America smiled and shut his eyes; it hurt. He nuzzled in behind Russia's ear. Russia liked that spot; America had found it in 1922 and rediscovered it in 1943 and now he could feel Russia twitch in his arms again, that little twitch, like America had given him a static shock in that hollow at the base of his skull.
Their fingertips explored each other, into every new mark and familiar hollow.
"Hey," America whispered, after an endless golden interval.
Russia quivered like a startled deer. "...Hey." Every line of his body was smooth and sweet in America's embrace.
"These new guys you've got in." America touched his lips to that spot again; held Russia in, gentle, tighter, as he nudged into it. "Bulganin and Khrushchev...they treating you okay?"
"Yes. They're both good men." A silence, and Russia flushed. "They haven't laid a hand on me, if that's what you mean."
"That's what I meant," America exhaled, and he gathered Russia in again against his chest, their legs all tangling together.
"It wasn't ever unbearable," Russia mumbled against America's collarbone.
"Nothing is unbearable to you," America murmured. He felt up the tender sweep of Russia's back with his fingertips.
Russia was silent. He pressed a single, flush kiss up through the fabric of America's shirt. "Not important" filtered faintly upwards.
America nuzzled his cheek against Russia's hair. He felt...he felt light-headed. "It's okay," he whispered, "We don't have to talk about it. I just wanted to make sure."
Russia tugged open the first button of America's shirt collar and traced his tongue over the exposed skin, secure in the dark hollow between their bodies.
"Didn't miss this, you know," Russia mumbled after a while. A nuzzle. "I didn't miss it at all..." His palm fit sweetly around the peak of America's hip.
"Me neither." A violent shiver went through America's heart. "Y-you're just...just a..."
"A thug..." Russia kissed across America's lower lip. "And you're an--an...arrogant, m-materialistic--ahh--" America brushed another kiss behind his ear. "Brat," he finally managed. His fingertips fluttered under America's clothes.
"You're not a thug..." America stripped off his own shirt, let his glasses get carried away in the collar, dropped both in the hollow between two roots. He caught Russia as Russia sank back into him. He nudged them together, felt skin slip against skin and whispered, "You're beautiful..."
The corner of Russia's mouth twisted like it always used to, when America said things like that. "Still a bad liar..." But he nuzzled the wide planes of his body into America's, regardless, began a small, tender line of kisses in the hollow of America's newly-bared left shoulder.
America took hitching breaths. "I'd...um...like it, if we could...try and...get along better."
Russia nipped at the knob of America's collarbone. "It...It might not be as...as hard as I thought." He didn't meet America's eyes.
America turned up Russia's chin with crooked fingers and touched a kiss to his mouth. Russia quavered against him, then leaned in and flicked their tongues together.
America felt...he had never felt so relieved.
Around them, the forest had darkened, and the dirt path had gone cold.
Russia held America in tight. "We can't...We can't do this again...can we?" He scrambled closer, half in America's lap, and let out a weak breath.
America shut his eyes, felt his heart pound, and wet his lips. "Maybe we can." He cinched his arms around Russia's hips, held him in snug. "I don't...I don't know, I mean...if we can...make things better, then--"
"Better? Do you think that's--possible?" Russia rested his head in America's shoulder again, and his eyelashes brushed over the curve of his neck every time he blinked. One of his arms dropped to cover America's on his hips.
America's stomach seized, seized, seized on every heartbeat. "W-why not? Our...our bosses want us to get closer now...right?"
Russia kissed his pulse again, soft, openmouthed. "Yes," he murmured. "But...But we're...still at war." He sounded so lost. "I don't know how we're supposed to--"
"But we're not at war at war, we're just..." America pressed a sharp kiss behind Russia's ear and combed his hair back. "The war is all in our heads."
Russia buckled under that kiss, gripped America for support. "But what about everyone else? Our--Our bosses and our reporters and our w-workers and our people? It's in their heads, too! I can't just make that go away with--with this! My boss and my country do what they want, I'm incidental!"
America felt a stab of bewilderment. He drew back and cupped Russia's jaw between his hands, rested the tips of their noses together, and stared into him. "'Your country?' Russia...you're your country. You're not incidental. The...fuck..." his lips moved as he lined up all those syllables. "The Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic...that's you." He twined the tips of his fingers into Russia's hair. "You're not some whipped dog, beautiful. You're more than any of them."
"But--" Russia shut his lips tight, didn't let another syllable crawl out for a long time. He stared helplessly into America's eyes, nuzzled his face against America's hands. He was shivering again, like he was getting sick. "I...I still can't change their minds."
"You don't have to." America caressed his hair back. "Just change yours."
Russia went still. He fastened his eyes on the trunk of the tree just over America's shoulder. "I don't...I don't think I can." A flinch opened in his eyes.
That look broke his heart. America kissed Russia's forehead. "Hey, that's what we're at Swiss's house for, right?" A shrug of a smile. "Everybody knew neither of us were gonna make any changes on this trip, we just..." He tugged at the ends of Russia's hair. "We were just supposed to, um, melt the ice a little bit. Change will...change will come later. If we both want it to. And we try."
Russia nudged his head back into America's hand in a nod, and was quiet for a moment. Then, "We should go back before the others come looking for us. I don't think they n-need to see this..." The frown lines America kissed away had returned. "It'll...make things...complicated..."
America had a pretty good idea that this was already complicated. Actually, he was pretty sure things had been complicated since about World War 1. He nodded, started to rise, then tangled his hands into Russia and pulled him back down again. "Russia--Russia--you know I care about you, right?" He searched his eyes. "I mean--a whole lot. No matter what--happens, or--what we say, or--you know, right?"
Russia gave him a flickering, confused look. "You...you do?"
America felt a hot surge from his heart, and he pulled Russia in for a warm, flush kiss. Russia made a quiet noise and melted in against him. His fingers combed haltingly back into America's hair.
America's eyes were warm when they broke. "Okay. Come on."
They both staggered and clung to one another as they got to their feet, legs numb from pressing into the ground, and got dressed in silence. Russia stumbled his fingers into America's when they steadied out, and he gave America a hesitant, crooked smile.
They were still smiling by the time they reached the house.
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-- The purpose of the Geneva Summit was to reduce international tensions and lay the foundations for future friendship between the 'Big Four' (and primarily the United States and the Soviet Union). While many issues were discussed, the goal was not so much to arrive at any specific resolutions, but to lower the barriers to international understanding and cooperation. The conference marked the beginning of an era of renewed optimism in US-USSR relations.
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This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.