a/n: Vague Cold War reference. No real historical stuff behind this. &here I thought I would post US/UK fic before anything else.

The world's their coffin ; PG - serious/drama - Russia x America

America has never really liked the cold, of all the seasons winter seemed to be the worst- always just cold, dreadfully cold. Spring had to be the best, blooming flowers, birth, life, rejuvenation. Not too much heat to damper the energy instead of encourage it.

It probably started with that, a cold that spreads to the very marrow of your bones; he had known all along the warmth behind that smile never existed.

Snow falls between them, he has to say something but the words have to be frozen, this cold place, this place that is Russia's.

So Russia starts first, "The truth is you don't mind the cold as much as you think."

The older leaning forward, catching flakes of snow on uncovered heads; America is surprised that Russia's breath comes out in the grey white cloud that always comes out of a person, because people are warm, they are hot, they are burning from the inside, and America can't imagine Russia being anything else but like this falling snow.


To touch.

Even through the gloved fingers he feels that Russia's face is indeed warm as slowly yet surely he reaches to briefly touch it, and the words drip over his shoulders down to his very ankles, buried deep deep he's known these words to be true all along.

(It's always winter where Russia is.)

America once thought, surely- if he didn't do something- Russia would freeze the world, an eternal winter, that's what he had to be planning, if he was cold everyone else had to be, everyone else should be with him, that's what America saw in that cold smile, but he also saw-


A different grin, a wicked wicked grin saved just for him, "You gave yourself an identity, a name, because without giving yourself one you'd never be able to know who you are."

Pushing his hand away, and Russia's face may be warm (slight, glancing, is America just wishing, giving the barest scraps of maybe to this person? Surely not-) but his hands are not warm as he places them to cup at America's face, America who tries hard not to flinch but how he hates the cold. And Russia's hands are freezing.

"You were alone, you were cold before everyone came and made you. But that wasn't enough. You needed to decide who you are, that isn't natural is it?"

Natural like the come and go of seasons; biting at the lip, and Russia comes so close America can feel that breath he had been witnessing only what seemed like seconds ago.

"You should just forget all about that."

Tasting it.

"You should just become one with me."


America draws back, from those cold hands and peels off his gloves, jerkily, angrily yet calmly as if the surface of the water has yet to break, gently, violently grabbing at one of Russia's wrist. Touching Russia, not many people boldly do it, and he has for a long time avoided it himself- never daring to even spare a strong glance, but now- just now he will break whatever silent unwritten vows he has made. The consequences be damned and to be stored in the back of his mind; he eventually shoves each glove over left, right, over Russia's hands. Sure that they would fit, and not exactly understanding why there's this black mortification heavy in his gut when they actually do fit.

Russia's eyes widening a fraction, before-

"No thanks," America replies.

-flexing his fingers warming from the heat that had already been absorbed by the gloves, from America, Russia doesn't- isn't sure- they, what are they-

"I am warm because everyone stands by my side."

Snow falls between them once again.

"If they become one with me how can they stand?"


Russia smiles, a not wicked, a not cold, but not yet warm smile, and it is the falling snow, the cold, his fingers feeling numb that makes America think, must be what is making him think that of all things that smile Russia gives him now is sad.

(You don't understand.)

But as Russia walks away, America likewise- the two from the other, Russia is only just getting used to what it's like for his hands to be warm.

While America thinks, winter isn't so bad after all.

It's just lonely.