Hetalia is not mine. Duh.

Russia never presses his button. And, as some sort of cosmic retaliation, the missiles from the West never come. Russia cannot tell whether it was relief or frustration that gave his hands a violent tremor for weeks afterward in any temperature. Although the trembling eventually leaves, the question in his mind never does.

Would America let it happen? Russia has already decided that he would not retaliate, but America has not made the decision. It is not fair at all. He feels as if the obnoxious man is taunting him in a way far more subtle than he has ever dealt with before.

But, he never confronts America and eventually their farce of a war, their sharp-as-knives standoff is over and Russia is still haunted by the question every 26th of December.

It has become a game, even, a game within a joke within mutually assured destruction. He searches for America every 26th and for some reason he can never find him. But, this 26th, he feels the dice have been rolled in his favor. Their meetings are held on a slightly irregular schedule and the location changes regularly, so Russia has only had to wait through 28 years to get a meeting in America on that cursed date.

Throughout the meeting, to make sure he doesn't disappear or replace himself with that look-alike brother of his, Russia stares intently at America. America does not appear bothered by the unrelenting violet eyes though, even though a nervous England is urging him to take the safety off his ever-present gun. In fact, America turns and grins straight at Russia numerous times, as if they are planning to go to an amusement park later. Infuriating little brat.

The idiot Westerner still manages to vanish with unforeseen talent in the swell of voices and elbows that clambers out the door when the meeting is over. Something changes though, the worn routine of hide-and-seek is disrupted when he finally leaves the building, swearing at himself for squandering this opportunity.

There sits America, resting on on one of the marble benches as if he's is waiting for someone. Waiting for someone. That arrogant son-of-a-bitch. He has dumped out all the spare change of his wallet and is meticulously looking at every coin, putting them into piles with no apparent rhyme or reason.

Russia strides over to America and carefully seats himself next to the piles of metal. America doesn't look up. He examines a small copper coin, shiny and new, and finally speaks. "Do you want something, Ruski?"

"Do you know what day it is?" America flips the nickel he's holding with practiced ease.

"Is it the 26th?" Russia snatches the nickel out of air before America can catch it and receives a slightly disgruntled look.

"Da." America's gaze has melted from annoyance into the rare expression of thoughtfulness.

"You know, I had been visiting Lady Liberty that day. The view was wonderful, but all I could think was how many communists were in my cities and how many capitalists were in yours. How, even from up there, I couldn't tell who was who. There were all just people." He looks far too wistful for such a young country to manage. America reaches over and plucks the nickel from Russia's hand. "Heads. Good luck."

Russia raises an eyebrow; is America stalling? "It's really too bad that in the end, bombs only really kill people."

He has forgotten that Russia cannot understand everything that runs through his frivolous head, and by extension, comes out of his mouth. "Amerika? What do you mean?"

America laughs, and it reminds him of keys rattling on tin. "The boss man wanted a weapon that killed communists. Not people." Russia's heartbeat speeds up a bit, which confuses him. His emotions are as pleasantly cool as the small disks of metal that are piled beside him.

"And you, Amerika?" America's fingers are drumming against his thigh, tapping out a muffled thump-thump, thump. Russia knows from years of spying on the man that it is a very long held nervous habit, and he can never decide if it is endearing or annoying.

"What did I want?" There's that rattling laugh again. "I didn't want a weapon, Russia." The laugh's pitch has risen unnaturally and the blonde nation's smile is peeling around the edges. "I didn't want to kill...innocent people." His words are littered with gaps, places where he has left out detail, easily filled in by Russia.

Russia feels a twinge of sadism flood from the recesses of his mind, and speaks without thinking, "Again?" At that, America carefully pulls the edges of his lips back up and forces the blinds obscuring his intellect down again as Russia wallows in regret. Damn, he should have held his tongue; thanks to his caustic remark, America has restored his favorite defense of idiocy. Russia hates it when he's like this.

"Whaddya mean, again, Commie?" America's grin is shiny and transparent, like glass; too bad it's harder to smash than most windows. Russia does not answer, and simply glares at the cracks in the sidewalk, remorse hidden in his slumped posture.

The shorter man seems to take this as an unsaid apology, the way the tense muscles of his face relax slightly, even though Russia most certainly would not apologize to the stupid Westerner, verbal or not. America stands and sighs, the sound soft and somehow mournful, "I didn't want to kill Russia, either."

America doesn't bother to pick up his spare change, but turns, brushing against the other nation like a cat, and walks down the street. Russia doesn't look at America leave; he is transfixed with the pile of coins that have been set into some kind of pattern. There is a circle of the copper pennies, surrounded with spikes made of gray coins of various sizes and a winding line of silvery ones he is reasonably sure are called dimes crawling nearly to where he's sitting. It looks like a small sun. A sun with a stem.

So! This is pretty much the end of this. I can't think of anymore. Yeah. Any ideas or comments would be appreciated!