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Powdery snow drifted up the sides of the quaint cabin, nearly covering the lower halves of the frosted windows. The wind bitterly nipped at the pair’s exposed skin, both of them squinting against the snow, which stung like tiny daggers against their faces while America fumbled with the keys, his fingers numb after the brief hike through the woods. The sun was not fully set yet, the outdoors blanketed with a blue hue. Still, the air chilled their lungs and burned their tracheas as America’s shaky hands worked at the lock.
“I can do it,” Russia offered, nudging America aside.
“I’ve got it. Look,” America shoved his shoulder against the door, grunting as the wood opened with a pop and a tired groan, “ta-da!”
“The cold was not bothering me. I was just getting tired of watching you struggle,” Russia said with a chuckle as he stepped inside, placing his bags down at the entryway.
“Yep,” America huffed, tossing his belongings in the general direction of Russia’s. He had heard the tales of Russia’s run-ins with General Winter more times than he could count; it was not news that Russia knew winter better than anyone else.
Unfortunately for America, though, the air inside of their cabin was just as piercing as the air outside. He crossed his arms and tapped around the walls, looking for a switch in the dark. Eventually, his fingers met an erect surface and he easily flicked the switch.
Dim lights slowly flickered on from the fixture above. A few bulbs were out, either cracked or missing, but the chandelier still provided substantial light. The orange warm tone of the light contradicted the frigid temperature and almost gave the illusion that the place was actually as warm and cozy as it looked to be.
“You think they’ve turned on the heat before we came,” America scoffed.
“I am not certain they have heat here,” Russia commented, dusting cobwebs out of nooks and crannies with his fingers, “they do have a fireplace though.”
The place was small; one bedroom, a small living space adorned with wooden furniture and flannel cushions, and a tiny kitchen directly behind the couch with a ramshackle table and two mismatched chairs to dine on. The corners were all dark and as America walked around clicking the lamps, he discovered that only two of the five had bulbs in them; dim ones at that.
Truth be told, America had no desire in going on this trip. It was England’s holiday gift to all of the allied nations; a weekend getaway in the mountains- all expenses covered! What he neglected to mention was that he was the one picking who roomed with who. Much to their disillusionment, America and Russia were placed together. England did not want to put himself through spending the weekend with America- the time that he spent raising him was more than enough- and France insisted that Canada roomed with he and England. England didn’t object. China decided himself that he was not going to go; he couldn’t stand boarding with another nation and was very much a homebody. That left America and Russia. And nobody would take in Russia and willingly subjecting themselves to his company. So, naturally, England placed the two roots of all of the Allies’ problems in a confined space together. France said that it’d help them sort out their differences, and England agreed. Wishful thinking.
“Can you light a fire?” America asked, crossing his arms in the center of the living space. His teeth chattered and he tucked his chin into the top of his coat.
“If there is wood in here, yes,” Russia said as he opened cabinets near the fireplace, crouching down to look for dry wood, “if there is not any wood though, we have to get under some blankets.”
“Fuck,” America shivered, hopping up and down, arms still crossed, in hopes that he could warm himself up.
“I do not see any wood.”
“Christ.”
“Is there an oven?” Russia suggested as he made his way into the kitchen. His boots creaked against the hardwood floors with each heavy step he took. “Aha! We can use the oven to heat the house, da?”
“Sure. I don’t even care anymore, man! I’m freezing my balls off.”
Even after the oven laid open in a pathetic attempt to heat the small area, America still sat shivering on the corner of the couch. Russia didnt outwardly show it, but he was equally as uncomfortable in the cold. He and America had both decided to wear two pairs of socks and another sweater, all while they huddled under blankets. Neither nation spoke while they sat shivering, the air between them as tense as it was gelid.
“Maybe it would be a good idea to share body heat,” Russia said in a hushed, meek tone.
“What?”
“It is not very smart of us to sit separately. We will be much warmer if we sit closer.”
“You want to cuddle?”
Russia shrugged, “No. But if we sit closer we will get warmer.”
Alfred glared at him, hesitated, then shifted closer so that their shoulders pressed together. He didn’t mind the feeling of being so close to Russia, in fact, it was much warmer. He drew in a shuddered breath before snaking his arms around the larger man. Russia turned over so he lay on his back, America’s arms not detaching themselves from him as he moved. He did not hesitate to position himself on top of Russia, pressing his ear against his sweater-clad chest and pulling a tail of his scarf over his face. He closed his eyes, enveloping himself in the newfound warmth, comforted by the gentle rise and fall of the larger man’s chest and the muffled thud of his heartbeat.
Russia brought his hand around America’s shoulders, securing himself comfortably around the smaller man. He ran his free hand through America’s hair, twisting the blond locks around each of his fingers, his tired, droopy-lidded eyes unwavering from the red gingham curtain that hung in front of the window before him. He had never seen America so serene. On second thought, he was unsure if he’d ever seen America sit still for this long. He wasn’t complaining; quiet America was a pleasant change, and as Russia studied the sleepy face of the man on his chest, it occurred to him just how... pretty... America was. America had never sat still long enough for Russia to study his features; the gentle slope of his nose and the sharp angle of his thin brows; the way his lips curved and dipped... Russia pulled him in closer.
America grumbled in objection for being moved, looking up at Russia, “You were right,” he muttered, voice raspy with drowsiness, “this is warmer.”
Russia smiled, contented by the affirmation from America.
While he counted Russia’s heartbeats, frequently interrupted by a heavy inhale or a low grumble from his chest it occurred to America that though Russia’s passive-aggressive, ruffian demeanor, he was still a person. Sure, America knew this; he wasn’t stupid. But he had never truly taken the time to consider that through their sharp remarks at each other, a man who- at his core- wasn’t all that the other nations chocked him up to be. He wasn’t half as terrifying as he was gentle.
America sat up, taking a moment to study Russia’s face. It was as if that, in his contemplation of the true nature of this man, he had forgot what he looked like. Russia looked up at America, his bleary face translating into a gentle smile. In this state, he looked like the most benevolent man in the world. It perplexed America as to how anybody could find this man daunting.
“You alright, milyi?” Russia asked, bringing a hand up to America’s face.
America nodded, leaning in to the warmth resonating from Russia’s palm, the tilt of his head against his hand a clear designation of his trust. America laid down once again, this time, with his face nestled in the crook of Russia’s neck. His scarf covered his eyes and forehead and fully encompassing America in the stale scent of vodka and metal that was associated with Russia. Along with his more abrasive smells, Russia carried the familiar aroma of warmth; one that attaches itself to a blanket after its been sitting in the sun. However unusual, America indulge himself in it. He hugged Russia closer, the older man humming in affirmation.
There was no denying that their desire to be close was driven by more than just their mutual coldness.
America lifted his head slightly once again, propping himself up with his elbow on the armrest that Russia leaned his head on. The man opened one violet eye, smiling gently at America, “Hmm?”
America brought his free hand up to Russia’s face, thumbing over the skin on his cheek. It was smooth, devoid of scars, unlike the rest of his body. Without thought, America planted a kiss to his cheek. Russia flinched, eyes widening at the gesture.
“Sorry,” America meekly apologized, “that was uncalled for.”
“No, it’s alright,” Russia murmured, wagging his head as he slowly blinked, “I was kind of hoping you’d do that.”
America smiled, pressing his forehead against Russia’s. He parted, but kept his face close to the other man’s, “Hey, Ivan,” America said, his voiced hushed as if his human name was to be kept a secret only shared between the two of them, “can I kiss you?”
Russia paused. The initial shock of hearing his human name fall from America’s tongue froze him in place. The sound was foreign, but not unpleasant. In fact, liked hearing it- and if he could, he would’ve asked for America to repeat it to him in the same gentle tone until the sound lost its meaning. He couldn’t bring himself to ask, so he nodded instead.
America kissed him gently at first; just barely a peck. The way he parted so shortly after delivering the delicate kiss made Russia concerned that it would be nothing more than a peck. As their lips hovered over each other, just barely brushing, Russia took it upon himself to close the tiny gap, this time taking America’s chin into his fingertips to ensure they he would not part so shortly after.
As their kisses deepened, America moved so that he was fully straddling Russia, breathing sharply in and out of his nose while his hands found themselves cupping Russia’s face and fingering with the fabric of his scarf. He parted.
“Why don’t you ever take this off?” He asked.
“Hm?” Russia was still riding the euphoria of their kiss, his eyes barely open.
“Your scarf.”
“Oh.”
“Why don’t you ever take it off?” America repeated.
“My head will fall off,” Russia jeered.
“Ivan,” America urged, rocking himself against the man beneath him as if to physically shake the answer out of him,
“My big sister gave it to me when I was small,” Russia explained, urging down the swell of warmth that came with hearing his name in America’s voice, “I wore it through the Siberian winters. Now,” he paused, contemplating his answer, “I guess that it is more of a comfort thing.”
“Can you take it off?”
“What?”
“Never mind, that was stupid.”
Russia drew in a breath, his hands running down America’s sides, “If you want you can take it off.”
“You’re sure?”
Russia nodded, “I think that I can trust you, Alfred.” His name felt foreign in his mouth. He wished that he could speak it so often that it would become just as normal as America.
Wordlessly, America began unraveling the white fabric from Russia’s neck, draping it over his shoulder as he pulled it from the older man. He furrowed his brows, running his fingers delicately over a bandage that was wrapped around his throat.
“It is really just a scar now,” Russia explained, “but I hate for people to see it.”
“How’d it happen?”
“Run-in with the Nordics while I was small,” Russia chuckled, “it matters none.”
America kissed his forehead, trailing down his nose before finally reaching his lips again, “Should we go to bed soon? It’ll probably be warmer with a heavier blanket.”
Russia nodded. Before getting up, he held America close one last time, enthralled by his new companion.