57 - First Time In A Long Time
Title: First Time In A Long Time
Characters: Russia/America
Rating: PG
Summary: 1964 - "Maybe we're still not ready to be alone together."
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
Paris. April 20th, 1964.
People spilled across the square from every door of every shop, chattering and laughing, their wrapped purchases tucked under their arms. Some lingered at the fountain, and tossed coins in among the carvings with a ping of metal on stone. Russia was able hear it from where he sat at the cafe table. He propped his elbows on the wrought-iron top, folded his hands and rested his chin upon them, grateful for the distraction of the crowd. He--He needed something to occupy his attention until the drinks arrived. Something that was not America.
He cleared his throat and adjusted his heavy silk scarf. France had given it to him. "I...I am glad we were able to find somewhere to sit. It is always very crowded here in the evenings."
America inspected the sole of his shoe. His chair was pushed a foot out from the table. "Yeah," he muttered. "You and--you come here a lot, huh?"
"Every--Every now and again, yes." Russia's eyes slid guiltily to the table just behind America's right shoulder. He had sat there with France, being kissed between every sip of espresso, less than a week ago.
"That's great." America's voice was heavy and grey as concrete. He nudged his glasses higher. "You know. That you're…getting out, and...whatever."
Russia finally looked at him. America was--not thinner, but harder; as though someone had taken a carving knife to his face to make the bones more prominent. He still looked healthy, golden, handsome, simply…aged.
A minute ticked by before Russia realized he'd been staring without saying a word.
America flushed. "So, uh." He swiped his napkin off his place setting and crumpled it into his lap. "I guess your boss said you were gonna start cutting back on how many bombs you make, huh? That's--that's good. I mean. That's healthy. My boss said that too. I mean, about me, making bombs. …Making less bombs."
"Yes." Russia looked up gratefully as their drinks arrived, then stared at his distorted, backlit reflection in the coffee. "I am...glad our bosses are able to see eye-to-eye on this. That we can--ah--" His stomach hurt. "Tensions are reducing, and-- It's a step in the right direction, I think."
America dragged his chair in towards the table. The wrought iron legs screamed against the bricks. He framed his cup with his forefingers and thumbs and stared down into it. "So this means we're doing the right thing, right?" he mumbled.
Russia drank for a while. A ceramic click as he set down his cup. "I...I hope so. It's promising, at least."
He tugged out his grey packet of cigarettes and tapped one out. A match, then. The tip flared in the twilight when he set it between his lips.
America watched him. His thumb drifted inside his collar, to a spot on the side of his neck.
"Yeah," America exhaled.
Russia tapped a curl of ash over the side of the table, and clenched his stomach against the urge to fix his eyes to America's fingers. He rolled the withered match beneath his thumb, and soot painted the pad of his finger black. "I've...It is good to see you." The words tumbled out all at once, much too fast.
America tugged his hand out from inside his collar, snapped out of a reverie. He picked up his coffee. "You--you too." He blew across it. A flutter of little ripples. "I...um. I-I've missed you a lot." America kept his gaze nailed to Russia's saucer. A hitched laugh. "Things have been a lot...um, calmer? Without you around. But, um…"
Russia flinched a smile. "I understand." A pause. "Though I...I would have liked to..." He sighed, and smoke fled past his lips. "I am sorry I wasn't able to be with you last November."
America's shoulders winced. "It's okay. I mean, it was nice of you to come to the funeral, and it wasn't like I was on my own, you know, England looked after me, and I was...I was okay." A silence. "That was a bad year."
Russia nodded, and his next breath burnt the cigarette paper down to the filter. He stubbed it out before it could burn his fingers. "France says that--" He tried to think of a diplomatic way of putting it. "That England has been a very good friend to you."
America colored. He sucked at his coffee. "Yeah, um--yeah, we're...getting along really well now. We've got a lot of irons in the fire together, and he's...you know..." America's voice faded. He mustered himself a few seconds later. "H-he's been a great friend. But it's not like we're…I mean, we're not..."
Not sleeping together yet. France had assured him of it.
Russia toyed with the end of his scarf, where the two tails descended from the knot at his throat. It made a bright splash of blue against the front of his coat. "I'm glad." His eyes widened, and his gaze flew up from his lap. "That the two of you are--are getting along, not that you haven't--that you're waiting to--" He felt his face heat.
"It's fine." America massaged his eyes under his glasses and blushed worse. "I know you're probably glad about that, too. To be honest, I'd be kind of upset if you were thrilled about me and England."
Russia's heart lurched. "I don't...I don't like to think about it." Though he did, when he and France were tangled into one another on the settee, clinging and gasping and nipping...He couldn't stop it.
America's hand was suddenly on his side of the table, his fingers folded around Russia's. That first graze of skin on skin burned. "I miss you," America whispered. His eyes flinched shut. His cup clicked down on his saucer.
Russia trembled, from elbow to wrist, and it was--it was the first time he had touched him since that night. They had shaken hands at Kennedy's funeral, of course, but Russia had make a point of not removing his gloves, and, and God, if he moved his thumb an inch to the left he could feel America's pulse-- "Please don't...America, please don't say that." It came out small and weak. Russia leaned forward in his chair, as though he could reach America across the table. Through it. His fingers kissed across America's palm.
He felt America cringe. Those searing blue eyes crept up to meet his. "I-I'm sorry, I know--w-we can't do anything about it, and this is, this is, for the best, but--but I--"
"I know," Russia breathed. His free hand floated up, out, and before he could stop himself, he was tracing America's hair off his forehead. "But this--this is--" He watched his fingers caress America's temple as though they belonged to someone else. "This is only going to make being apart harder."
America gave a quiet whine and turned his head into Russia's hand. A rush of warmth, as America's breath spilled down his palm. "Sorry," he whispered.
Russia could kiss him, right now. He could catch him by the collar and drag him in until the edge of the table cut into their stomachs. He could taste him again. His thumb dropped to follow the curve of America's lower lip.
"It's not your fault," he murmured.
America drew back in a cold rush and folded his hands around his coffee cup. His color was too high; a few strands of golden hair floated around his face; and his mouth had taken that miserable darkened flush Russia remembered, the way it always did when America was dying to be kissed. "Yeah, we uh...yeah, maybe we're still not ready to be alone together." An unhappy laugh. "I...um..."
Nothing. America took another swallow of coffee and winced at the taste.
Russia's hands felt cold. The handle of his mug did nothing to change that. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. He closed his eyes, and felt his lips tighten. "I thought that this would be..." The sentence dangled between them, unfinished.
America was silent for a few seconds. "It's so hard." His voice quavered. "When we're together at...at conferences, or diplomatic things, or whatever."
"I watch you," Russia admitted. It ached. "All the time."
America nodded. Another huffed, threadbare laugh. "I-I feel sick to my stomach sometimes, just--looking at you and thinking about you and then I have to go to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face or something because otherwise you know I swear to God I start feeling sick, right there at the table--" It came out in a wound-up, unpausing rush.
Russia flinched hard at the corners of his mouth. He peeled his eyelids open. His gaze lit on his battered pack of cigarettes. "You've...You've ruined smoking for me." It sounded like an accusation, and maybe it was, but there was no venom in it. "I always think of--of--" A shivering glance at America's open collar, and his breath thinned in his lungs.
"Good." America rubbed that spot beneath his collar with the backs of his fingers; nuzzled it, unthinking. "I mean, I think about it every day, so I figure you should, too."
He had never been able to taste it, Russia realized. It was too fresh, that first night. And after that... He crossed his arms on the table, curled his fingertips against his sleeves. Gnawed at his lower lip. "May I see it?"
America stilled. His feet shifted under the table. His hand traveled up to his collar, then, and he kept his eyes on Russia's face as he undid his first button--then the second.
He pulled his collar down an inch to the left. There: a white, round, puffed scar, small and gleaming, vivid against that sweep of tanned skin.
Russia stared. He felt himself leaning in. A nick opened inside his lip, worried apart by his teeth, and he tasted blood. "Does it hurt?" Of course it didn't hurt. His fingers traced to his own neck, beneath the silk, to the masses of glossy white there.
America shook his head. He circled the scar with his fingertip, over and over. "But it took forever to heal."
Russia pressed his nails into his skin, just below the join of his neck and shoulder. The tissue there was too thick to feel. He wished it wasn't. "You never bandaged it, did you."
America's gaze fell away, to the interlaced brickwork of the sidewalk. "No, I didn't bandage it. …Plus, I picked at it all the time."
"It worked," Russia breathed. America had made it scar. America went on touching that mark, stroking it, and how--how often did he do that in a day? Did he fall asleep with his hand on it? Would he ever--
Russia gripped the lip of the table.
Would he ever let someone else kiss it?
America bit his lip. Slow, trancelike, he buttoned up his collar again.
"Look…I should probably head out."
Russia blinked. Looked up. "I... What?" His fingers didn't leave his own neck.
America wadded up his napkin and jammed it back on the table. "I just, you know, I wanted to talk, and like, say that--it's a good thing, how we're cutting back on the nukes, and everything, and, and we've made the right choice, and...and, um," a thin, unsmiling laugh. "Now I think I should probably go. Before I say anything stupid. Or do anything stupid."
"…All right." Russia felt for his cigarettes on the table and shoved them into his pocket. "I'm--I'm glad we were able to speak to one another." His lip throbbed. "But..." A tiny, brittle smile. "Let's not do this again." That feeling was already beginning to set in--a slow, bone-deep burn. He should never have touched him. It hurt exactly the same.
America nodded and shoved to his feet. He looked--more worn than when they had walked in. Paler, too. "Hey, can we put this on France's tab, or something? 'S the least he owes me..." it trailed off in a mutter.
"I'm sure he won't mind," Russia mumbled.
America watched him for an aching spill of seconds, something trembling at the outer corners of his eyes--
He turned and left, scraping between the maze of iron chairs.
Russia waited until America disappeared before burying his face in his hands.
+++
--On April 20 1964, US President Lyndon B. Johnson and Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev simultaneously announced plans to cut back production of materials for making nuclear weapons.
+++
Please read our Rules & FAQ before posting. / Пожалуйста, прочтите Правила и FAQ прежде чем комментировать.
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
Summary: 1964 - "Maybe we're still not ready to be alone together."
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
Paris. April 20th, 1964.
People spilled across the square from every door of every shop, chattering and laughing, their wrapped purchases tucked under their arms. Some lingered at the fountain, and tossed coins in among the carvings with a ping of metal on stone. Russia was able hear it from where he sat at the cafe table. He propped his elbows on the wrought-iron top, folded his hands and rested his chin upon them, grateful for the distraction of the crowd. He--He needed something to occupy his attention until the drinks arrived. Something that was not America.
He cleared his throat and adjusted his heavy silk scarf. France had given it to him. "I...I am glad we were able to find somewhere to sit. It is always very crowded here in the evenings."
America inspected the sole of his shoe. His chair was pushed a foot out from the table. "Yeah," he muttered. "You and--you come here a lot, huh?"
"Every--Every now and again, yes." Russia's eyes slid guiltily to the table just behind America's right shoulder. He had sat there with France, being kissed between every sip of espresso, less than a week ago.
"That's great." America's voice was heavy and grey as concrete. He nudged his glasses higher. "You know. That you're…getting out, and...whatever."
Russia finally looked at him. America was--not thinner, but harder; as though someone had taken a carving knife to his face to make the bones more prominent. He still looked healthy, golden, handsome, simply…aged.
A minute ticked by before Russia realized he'd been staring without saying a word.
America flushed. "So, uh." He swiped his napkin off his place setting and crumpled it into his lap. "I guess your boss said you were gonna start cutting back on how many bombs you make, huh? That's--that's good. I mean. That's healthy. My boss said that too. I mean, about me, making bombs. …Making less bombs."
"Yes." Russia looked up gratefully as their drinks arrived, then stared at his distorted, backlit reflection in the coffee. "I am...glad our bosses are able to see eye-to-eye on this. That we can--ah--" His stomach hurt. "Tensions are reducing, and-- It's a step in the right direction, I think."
America dragged his chair in towards the table. The wrought iron legs screamed against the bricks. He framed his cup with his forefingers and thumbs and stared down into it. "So this means we're doing the right thing, right?" he mumbled.
Russia drank for a while. A ceramic click as he set down his cup. "I...I hope so. It's promising, at least."
He tugged out his grey packet of cigarettes and tapped one out. A match, then. The tip flared in the twilight when he set it between his lips.
America watched him. His thumb drifted inside his collar, to a spot on the side of his neck.
"Yeah," America exhaled.
Russia tapped a curl of ash over the side of the table, and clenched his stomach against the urge to fix his eyes to America's fingers. He rolled the withered match beneath his thumb, and soot painted the pad of his finger black. "I've...It is good to see you." The words tumbled out all at once, much too fast.
America tugged his hand out from inside his collar, snapped out of a reverie. He picked up his coffee. "You--you too." He blew across it. A flutter of little ripples. "I...um. I-I've missed you a lot." America kept his gaze nailed to Russia's saucer. A hitched laugh. "Things have been a lot...um, calmer? Without you around. But, um…"
Russia flinched a smile. "I understand." A pause. "Though I...I would have liked to..." He sighed, and smoke fled past his lips. "I am sorry I wasn't able to be with you last November."
America's shoulders winced. "It's okay. I mean, it was nice of you to come to the funeral, and it wasn't like I was on my own, you know, England looked after me, and I was...I was okay." A silence. "That was a bad year."
Russia nodded, and his next breath burnt the cigarette paper down to the filter. He stubbed it out before it could burn his fingers. "France says that--" He tried to think of a diplomatic way of putting it. "That England has been a very good friend to you."
America colored. He sucked at his coffee. "Yeah, um--yeah, we're...getting along really well now. We've got a lot of irons in the fire together, and he's...you know..." America's voice faded. He mustered himself a few seconds later. "H-he's been a great friend. But it's not like we're…I mean, we're not..."
Not sleeping together yet. France had assured him of it.
Russia toyed with the end of his scarf, where the two tails descended from the knot at his throat. It made a bright splash of blue against the front of his coat. "I'm glad." His eyes widened, and his gaze flew up from his lap. "That the two of you are--are getting along, not that you haven't--that you're waiting to--" He felt his face heat.
"It's fine." America massaged his eyes under his glasses and blushed worse. "I know you're probably glad about that, too. To be honest, I'd be kind of upset if you were thrilled about me and England."
Russia's heart lurched. "I don't...I don't like to think about it." Though he did, when he and France were tangled into one another on the settee, clinging and gasping and nipping...He couldn't stop it.
America's hand was suddenly on his side of the table, his fingers folded around Russia's. That first graze of skin on skin burned. "I miss you," America whispered. His eyes flinched shut. His cup clicked down on his saucer.
Russia trembled, from elbow to wrist, and it was--it was the first time he had touched him since that night. They had shaken hands at Kennedy's funeral, of course, but Russia had make a point of not removing his gloves, and, and God, if he moved his thumb an inch to the left he could feel America's pulse-- "Please don't...America, please don't say that." It came out small and weak. Russia leaned forward in his chair, as though he could reach America across the table. Through it. His fingers kissed across America's palm.
He felt America cringe. Those searing blue eyes crept up to meet his. "I-I'm sorry, I know--w-we can't do anything about it, and this is, this is, for the best, but--but I--"
"I know," Russia breathed. His free hand floated up, out, and before he could stop himself, he was tracing America's hair off his forehead. "But this--this is--" He watched his fingers caress America's temple as though they belonged to someone else. "This is only going to make being apart harder."
America gave a quiet whine and turned his head into Russia's hand. A rush of warmth, as America's breath spilled down his palm. "Sorry," he whispered.
Russia could kiss him, right now. He could catch him by the collar and drag him in until the edge of the table cut into their stomachs. He could taste him again. His thumb dropped to follow the curve of America's lower lip.
"It's not your fault," he murmured.
America drew back in a cold rush and folded his hands around his coffee cup. His color was too high; a few strands of golden hair floated around his face; and his mouth had taken that miserable darkened flush Russia remembered, the way it always did when America was dying to be kissed. "Yeah, we uh...yeah, maybe we're still not ready to be alone together." An unhappy laugh. "I...um..."
Nothing. America took another swallow of coffee and winced at the taste.
Russia's hands felt cold. The handle of his mug did nothing to change that. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. He closed his eyes, and felt his lips tighten. "I thought that this would be..." The sentence dangled between them, unfinished.
America was silent for a few seconds. "It's so hard." His voice quavered. "When we're together at...at conferences, or diplomatic things, or whatever."
"I watch you," Russia admitted. It ached. "All the time."
America nodded. Another huffed, threadbare laugh. "I-I feel sick to my stomach sometimes, just--looking at you and thinking about you and then I have to go to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face or something because otherwise you know I swear to God I start feeling sick, right there at the table--" It came out in a wound-up, unpausing rush.
Russia flinched hard at the corners of his mouth. He peeled his eyelids open. His gaze lit on his battered pack of cigarettes. "You've...You've ruined smoking for me." It sounded like an accusation, and maybe it was, but there was no venom in it. "I always think of--of--" A shivering glance at America's open collar, and his breath thinned in his lungs.
"Good." America rubbed that spot beneath his collar with the backs of his fingers; nuzzled it, unthinking. "I mean, I think about it every day, so I figure you should, too."
He had never been able to taste it, Russia realized. It was too fresh, that first night. And after that... He crossed his arms on the table, curled his fingertips against his sleeves. Gnawed at his lower lip. "May I see it?"
America stilled. His feet shifted under the table. His hand traveled up to his collar, then, and he kept his eyes on Russia's face as he undid his first button--then the second.
He pulled his collar down an inch to the left. There: a white, round, puffed scar, small and gleaming, vivid against that sweep of tanned skin.
Russia stared. He felt himself leaning in. A nick opened inside his lip, worried apart by his teeth, and he tasted blood. "Does it hurt?" Of course it didn't hurt. His fingers traced to his own neck, beneath the silk, to the masses of glossy white there.
America shook his head. He circled the scar with his fingertip, over and over. "But it took forever to heal."
Russia pressed his nails into his skin, just below the join of his neck and shoulder. The tissue there was too thick to feel. He wished it wasn't. "You never bandaged it, did you."
America's gaze fell away, to the interlaced brickwork of the sidewalk. "No, I didn't bandage it. …Plus, I picked at it all the time."
"It worked," Russia breathed. America had made it scar. America went on touching that mark, stroking it, and how--how often did he do that in a day? Did he fall asleep with his hand on it? Would he ever--
Russia gripped the lip of the table.
Would he ever let someone else kiss it?
America bit his lip. Slow, trancelike, he buttoned up his collar again.
"Look…I should probably head out."
Russia blinked. Looked up. "I... What?" His fingers didn't leave his own neck.
America wadded up his napkin and jammed it back on the table. "I just, you know, I wanted to talk, and like, say that--it's a good thing, how we're cutting back on the nukes, and everything, and, and we've made the right choice, and...and, um," a thin, unsmiling laugh. "Now I think I should probably go. Before I say anything stupid. Or do anything stupid."
"…All right." Russia felt for his cigarettes on the table and shoved them into his pocket. "I'm--I'm glad we were able to speak to one another." His lip throbbed. "But..." A tiny, brittle smile. "Let's not do this again." That feeling was already beginning to set in--a slow, bone-deep burn. He should never have touched him. It hurt exactly the same.
America nodded and shoved to his feet. He looked--more worn than when they had walked in. Paler, too. "Hey, can we put this on France's tab, or something? 'S the least he owes me..." it trailed off in a mutter.
"I'm sure he won't mind," Russia mumbled.
America watched him for an aching spill of seconds, something trembling at the outer corners of his eyes--
He turned and left, scraping between the maze of iron chairs.
Russia waited until America disappeared before burying his face in his hands.
+++
--On April 20 1964, US President Lyndon B. Johnson and Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev simultaneously announced plans to cut back production of materials for making nuclear weapons.
+++
Please read our Rules & FAQ before posting. / Пожалуйста, прочтите Правила и FAQ прежде чем комментировать.
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.