Title: Famous Last Words
Summary: In which a slip of the tongue gives Ivan access to someone for which he never thought he could ask.
Rating: M for Most Definitely Not Worksafe!
Disclaimer: I don't own it. (And tbh I don't think the actual nation of Russia thinks of Canada like this. But that's what fandom is for, right? right? :D)
Notes: A de-anon from the kink meme. The request that spawned it was: "America wants to have sex with Russia, and does. But Russia is in love/lust with Canada, and when they're having sex Russia calls out Canada's name instead. (Whether or not he knew it was America and used him to replace Canada or if he just confused the twins is up to anon).
After the initial shock/anger/hurt, America plays the hero and gets them together.
I'd prefer a gloss over the RusAme (or AmeRus, as you kids seem to be calling it) (but I'd still love to see some of it, if it's alright!) and more emphasis on RusCan. RusCan sex definitely a huge bonus.
Any universe, any gender is fine (I seriously love everything!). But this anon would love you forever if you used human names."
Not officially beta'd, but I gave it a better look-through before posting here. I think I've cleared up the rest of the errors! But I still can't think of a decent title. So...the crappy one stays. Ugh, why I so fail
It's true, Russia thinks, that America was not his first choice. Not even his third choice.
Actually, not even his tenth.
Actually, Russia would probably have rather slept with France again, and taken the degrading feeling of the morning after, rather than sleep with America.
It's not that America is particularly unattractive. He can't say that (although he has before, and to America's face, but that was to deliberately upset him). More simply, he would never have assumed that America, who had approached him earlier today and made his offer very clearly and brazenly, had ever harboured any sort of feeling for him beyond hatred. After all, Russia feels little more than annoyance and a mild ire when he thinks about his one time ally and former enemy, which he does, albeit seldomly.
But beggars can't be choosers. And Russia should be happy to take what he can get, when he can get it.
Besides, he reflects, as a topless America gnaws enthusiastically on his earlobe, just keeping on this side of painful, there are some benefits. Certainly. He notices now how easily the curve of America's rear fits in his palm, how strained the muscles in his thighs are, seen clearly through the denim of America's jeans. He watches how America's hair falls on the back of his neck, feels how soft and smooth the skin is there.
Though he's never touched him before now, these are familiar shapes, familiar colours, with subtle differences. Canada's hair is wavier, he thinks, and curls gracefully on his nape. Maybe a shade lighter. But he is probably very soft and warm there, and so Russia cups America's neck and exhales happily. Canada's jawline is a little less strong, but that is easy enough to ignore: Russia merely shuts his eyes.
Canada's ass - oh, he has memorised this curve completely, it's the kind of thing poets should write about - is slightly different. It comes from a lot of time spent skating - on canals, on the hockey rink, doing lazy single axels. He wouldn't wear pants that fit him so closely, Russia thinks, that's not his style, nor is it his personality. But Russia wouldn't really mind if he did. And his thighs, he's seen these before, covered up in padding and the hem of a long hockey jersey - well, they're pretty much exactly like this. The lust he feels at that thought has him gripping the thighs straddling his hips now with a distinct possession.
Because in Russia's mind, Canada is already his. Canada has beautiful smooth skin at the small of his back so it seems like a decent idea to rest his big, awkward, clumsy hands there. Canada is light and graceful, so Russia feels like he fits for once. And when he does it, Canada moans - loudly (too loudly), more vocal than Russia's ever heard him except maybe at hockey games - and grinds his erection almost helplessly into Russia's hips.
Ah, thinks Russia, now there's a good use for his hands, and he switches to bring his right to between Canada's legs, skimming the skin lightly as he goes, hoping the motion is half as graceful as his North American counterpart is. Canada moves his mouth over his cheek, over his lips, and the way they finally fit together is blissful. Blissful, but a bit foreign - Canada's lips are normally thicker and plumper than these, so Russia bites down on the lower, to swell it a bit.
"Ahn," Canada moans, and his grip around Russia's shoulders grows tighter, more desperate. The way he holds onto Russia is so wonderfully needy and incredibly erotic. Very suddenly, he wants more, he wants closer than his hand on Canada's rough jeans - after all, Canada surely can't feel much through the thick material, and Ivan would really, really like him to feel good, feel half of what he himself feels now.
"Canada," he breathes in between kisses, wishing desperately he knew the other's name, the one he takes to shield his identity, the one that would let Ivan think this this is more than just two countries having diplomatic relations but actually them, because god, Ivan's wanted him for so long -
"Wait, what?" Canada pulls back.
Ivan blinks, and stills his hand on - oh, it's America. America's face, in shock. America's erection, in his grasp.
America somehow recovers first. He closes his mouth with a sharp snap and a click at his jaw, and looks a little upset. "Get your hands off me," he says, pushing Russia away, and he jumps up off Russia's lap, off the bed where Russia is sitting.
They don't speak. America gathers his shirt, puts it on inside out by accident, and rushes out of the room, his face red. Russia, for his part, is still somewhat in shock. He takes a minute to think about this, while reclined on the bed and propped up on his elbows.
Well that was smooth, he concludes sarcastically, but really, there is no true harm done. It's not like America will start World War III over this. Maybe he will be a bit upset - Russia recalls America confessing in a rushed voice that he'd always secretly wanted this, because Russia was the enemy, the Big Bad, and all heroes should have their villains with whom they have ridiculously hot sexy chemistry. Russia doesn't recall any significant profession of love.
But it would have been nice to get some for a change, he thinks, especially since actually having sex with Canada would never happen. Canada probably has fifteen lovers already - he has always been disturbingly close with the Netherlands, and he and India play their little business games regularly (besides, India's way hotter than he is). His own sister sees him more often than Russia does, though Russia feels like he'd die a slow, humiliating death if it were true that Ukraine and Canada - oh the devil take him, it's best not to think about that.
What do Canada and Russia have in common, really? Hockey? Being Northern? That's pathetic. Might as well apply the same argument to, oh, all of Scandinavia.
On top of it all, his stupid erection refuses to fade for at least ten minutes. Delightful.
Three months later, while at a meeting hosted by France, he gets a call from America. America, who hasn't contacted him since That Day, and who has refused to look even remotely his way during all their meetings (making their one-on-one sessions particularly awkward but that doesn't really matter, and anyway, Russia refuses to apologise).
"Okay so," America says when he picks up the phone, "I've done a lot of thinking about it and I realised it's a bad idea to let this get in the way of our relations." Russia isn't sure what precisely America means by relations but there isn't any time to ask before America soldiers on. "Guess I probably shouldn't have just laid low for about, like, three months there but whatever." That's probably American for 'I'm sorry'. "If you're free tonight, I'm in town and I'll grab us dinner. Meet me at 8 at the Cafe dull a Pay. The afternoon crowd'll have thinned out by then so ask for me at the front desk. See ya." Click.
That quickly, Russia appears to have a date this evening. He's half tempted to call America back and tell him look, you can't talk to me like that, and, what if I had been busy or had other plans already, but the truth of the matter is, beyond drinking alone and doing paperwork, he didn't have a single plan that night. And nobody has asked him to dinner in well over twenty-five years. So he might as well. But America's paying.
The Café de la Paix is a nice place and he doesn't even have to go far, because it's physically connected to the hotel where France has had most of them all put up. So at 8:10, since America deserves to be kept waiting a bit, after three months of impolite silence, Russia takes the elevator down and strolls into the cafe on the ground floor. The waitstaff direct him to an empty table when he mentions Alfred Jones and present him with a menu.
Inside the menu is a small piece of paper, on which Russia expects is the table d'hôte. So he's surprised when he turns it around and finds America's ungainly scribble instead.
I thought I'd do something nice for you for a change. You can thank me later. And as much as I'd love some awesome political hate sex, you're just not that bad a guy. Not anymore. So you have my tentative approval assuming you don't screw this up on your own.
But let it be known: one wrong move, I swear to God, I will end you.
Order anything you want, they already have my information.
The message is somewhere between polite and civil, because although America appears to be doing him a favour, he didn't even bother signing it, which tells Russia he's still somewhat angry. It's also unclear what favour America is doing.
That is, until he hears someone quietly clearing his throat. He looks up and his typically resilient poker face shatters.
Canada is in front of him, on the opposite side of the small table, next to the only other chair. "Uh, um. Hello."
Russia's heart begins to pound, his hands grow clammy. He's probably blushing but his cheeks are the only warm part of him; his blood has frozen, and not because it's mid-March.
"Do, do you mind if I sit?"
Canada's quiet, timid voice breaks the spell. "Yes - I mean, no, no I don't mind," Russia says, stumbling over his words, and Canada pulls the chair out. Russia stands to receive his guest - it's polite, yes? - but the movement is jerky and halting and he winds up tipping his own chair over backwards into the table behind them. As he regains the chair's balance and takes his seat, he mumbles an apology to the French couple, who appear only mildly perturbed.
Why do I have to be so ungraceful, he thinks, grumbling. What, I couldn't have represented Russia with a body like Baryshnikov's?
"Um," Canada says, "Alfred told me he'd - he'd be here, b-but I've been waiting, uh, and he didn't show, so ... and then you did."
After some tentative discussion, Russia slowly pieces it all together alone, since it does not appear Canada is aware of what America's done. It appears instead that Canada was pointed to the table by the waitstaff, who had been instructed not to lead him there until Russia was shown to the table first (Russia has to admit, that was a wise move on America's part). It appears that Canada believed this to be a meeting between he and his brother, and that when Russia showed up instead, he had been told by the waitstaff that his brother regretted that he could not make it, but that he hoped Canada would enjoy a meal with a friend sent in his stead.
And - perhaps amazingly - it does not appear Canada is aware of Russia's entirely less than platonic feelings for him. On one hand, cover not blown. On the other, rejection still plausibly imminent.
However, it also appears that dinner was a bad idea, because Canada is a typically silent individual and Russia is still trying to recover some composure. So the silence between them is neither companionable nor pleasant, but stilted and awkward. More than once Russia and Canada begin speaking at the same time and wind up interrupting each other, and then interrupting each other again when they both say, "after you". More than once Russia realises he's staring by Canada's furtive, nervous glance and embarrassed demeanour; then Russia overcompensates by glaring at his scallops in crème sauce, like it's their fault or something.
It isn't helping his case that Canada looks the way he does, his hair combed neatly into place, his shirt pressed, and yes, that colour might wash his skin out and make him look very pale, but it brings out his eyes so nicely. Despite the buttons on the neck being done up too high for Russia's liking, the sleeves are rolled up to reveal graceful wrists and slender forearms. He feels like he's never wanted to touch anything so badly in his life.
But then it gets better, to Russia's utter delight. In a way, they've both been stood up by someone who's footing the bill, so they order a nice wine with dinner without feeling too bad about the price. This is fortunate, Russia reflects, because by the dessert course, they are talking reasonably smoothly.
And in the end, he manages to say (without sounding too weird) what a nice night it has been and that perhaps they should do this again sometime, and Canada smiles beautifully and nods, jostling his pretty blond hair.
His first mistake is letting Canada call the shots and be the one to call him.
From Russia's point of view, this would be ideal. Not only would it demonstrate some initiative on Canada's part, which Russia thinks could possibly make his heart explode with joy, but it would also alleviate some of the guilt Russia feels on the days that he feels responsible enough for silly things like guilt.
Russia has been ... desirous, so to say, of Canada since he began expanding eastwards and found a land across the great expanse of water. Something had pulled him forwards the day he arrived there, stirring him onwards. Something that he felt had been sleeping within him for ages, from a time when part of what would later become Ivan physically left Russia entirely. From the days when General Winter ruled the Earth. (But that's probably nothing more than an old Slavic fairy tale.)
To press his borders so closely to Canada wasn't inappropriate, it was instinct, and he had been incapable of denying it. He's wanted more ever since.
This is how he has rationalised lusting after Canada's beautiful lithe body, because back then, Canada had been ... very young.
Canada is still very young, and a little too idealistic, and as a much, much older being, Russia should really know better.
Even so, he couldn't stop himself from thinking about him. A long time ago he felt mortified at the event of coming, harder than he ever had before, to the thought of someone so young, his eyes so wide and bright, his hair still sunny blonde.
Russia got over the feeling of mortification quickly. As long as he looks and doesn't touch, right?
Then Canada grew up some more and his feelings only intensified. On the bright side, at least he slept better at night, bringing himself off to someone who appeared of age.
This is where he is now, in his bed, not falling asleep like he should be, with his hand down his pants to try and help him nod off when 3 AM rolls around and he is left still staring up at the ceiling, thinking idly that it needs a new paint job while trying not to think Canada, CanadaCanadaCanada, and failing.
He doesn't know if Canada's a virgin. Probably he isn't, in fact, although in all of Russia's fantasies, he is. The mere thought of anybody touching what he covets so badly is revolting. And yet Canada, in his mind, positions himself over Russia's cock like a professional, his beautiful white thighs straining as he takes it in. Somehow Canada knows no other lover, but does know to angle himself backwards slightly in order for the tip to brush against his prostate.
Ah, but fantasies don't have to make sense.
Russia would keep his legs bent behind Canada's back for him to lean on, and Canada would grip his knees with shaky hands, bracing himself on his descents. Canada doesn't need his hands to touch himself. Russia is more than willing to touch Canada between his legs. In fact, he loves the quiet sound Canada breathily makes when he wraps his hand around him. He can't fit the entire length in one hand - not that he's seen it - partly because hey, second largest by landmass, right? That must count for something! And partly because Russia secretly wouldn't mind being penetrated. If it were anybody else he'd scream bloody murder at the thought of it but oh, he'd do anything for Canada. And somehow, never-been-touched Canada would make it amazing for him.
Who knows how they got to this point, doesn't matter, maybe Russia invited him over for tea, or whatever. In Russia's mind, he's a far better smooth-talker than he is in reality.
Canada's face is glowing with sweat, in the moonlight from the window above Russia's bed. He bites down on his lip when he slams his hips down, faster now, and Russia answers with an upward thrust, seeking to claim. A motion that says, you're mine, and one that replies, da, tvoy, Vanya - oh, yes, yes - he makes sure to imagine Canada coming first, that's gentlemanly. So Canada digs his nails into Russia's knees and arches his back, grinding his erection into Russia's palm. He stops stroking Canada's thigh with his other hand in order to cover the mess and keep things relatively clean, but some escapes as he watches Canada's face, contorted in ecstasy, as he writhes above him - so close, yes - aah -
Anyway, the point is, weeks pass and Canada doesn't call, which means he probably isn't interested, and that is why Russia has elected to spend so many recent nights vodka-wallowing in his stupid, illogical, impossible fantasies.
His second mistake is not calling America for help. Frankly, he'd rather eat dirt ... unfortunately, he can't deny it, America knows his brother better than Russia does. But hopefully not that much better. If there is any truth to the rumours about precisely how undefended that border is, Russia might have to introduce America to his pipe.
"What the hell gives, man?"
Luckily for Russia, his second mistake is easily fixed, because America obviously thinks nothing of calling him up.
"What are you talking about, comrade?"
"Don't comrade me, you dickless weasel. What the holy hell is wrong with you? You take him out on a nice date, you wine and dine him, you give him the old hey this has been fun let's do it again sometime, and then you just eff off forever?"
"I do not understand what you mean to imply, America. Be clearer, pozhaluista. What is your problem?"
"My problem, you jackass, is that you're leading my bro on. And I don't like that. I thought you, y'know."
"No, America, I do not know."
"Well, don't you like him? Or what, do you just wanna fuck him the once?"
It's unclear by America's tone of voice alone which card he should play. He's not sure which one would upset America further, nor is he sure whether he'd like to have America upset further. The one card he doesn't want to play is the truth, but ultimately, Russia isn't entirely sure what he wants, either, because he's never considered seriously before the prospect of actually getting it.
"I'm waiting, Russkie."
"Da, well patience is virtue you lack."
"Ugh. If you don't want to admit you just want to sleep with him once to get it out of your system, it's fine, I don't care. We all do this from time to time, so... let's be adults about it, huh? Yeah okay, so I'm his brother, and it's prolly kinda weird to talk to me about this, but remember, I look out for his best interests too. Y'know?"
"Oh? And I am such interests now, is this it?"
"Pfft. Hardly. Bro's upset you've given him the Cuba treatment."
"What is Cuba treatment? Is this where I hide giant ton of nuclear arms at friend's house?"
"That is not even a little bit funny. No, joker, the Cuba treatment is where people tell Canada shit like 'oh hey come on over whenever' and then completely forget about him. Or act surprised when he shows up. Or beat him up when they mistake him for me. So now he just assumes everybody's forgotten about him after he leaves their sight and any offer made is like, null and void. It's pathetic."
"Is kind of sad actually."
"Yeah, s'what I meant. Anyway, if you were serious about getting together with him again? Call him the fuck up, okay? You gotta make the first move with him, you can't be lettin' him do it. Cuz he won't."
"But, I ... I can't -"
"Tchyeah you fuckin' can."
"What does he want? From me, what would he like?"
"It doesn't matter what he really wants."
"Wait, what? Did you not say acting in best interests?"
"Yeah, well ... look. Canada doesn't get a lot of action. I dunno what he's looking for, I don't even know if he's looking at all, but he will probably hand himself over to you, anyway. It doesn't matter if this is a one-night-stand, or you courtin' his shy ass for a year. Just the night will make him happy. So. Call him. The fuck. Up. And do it now."
"But what do I say?"
"Oh for the love of - jesus, Russia, you could say any old thing to him. Hell, you could say nothing to him. Y'know what, that's an even better idea, take him to, like, a movie, where neither of you have to fucking talk, you'll get on great. Kiss him at the end of the night, you'll have him eating out of your hand. Listen. I know you got a pair, and I know you got his number, so put both to good use and just fuckin' call him already. If I don't hear from him in thirty minutes telling me the news I'm gonna blast you one."
And then America hangs up on him without clarifying precisely what is meant by 'blast'.
Since dinner didn't work so well last time without something to talk about, Russia finds an activity that doesn't require an obligation to fill silence with conversation. But fortunately, there are cheap tickets to the symphony Saturday night. The program is Dvorak and Mendelssohn, who were neither Russian nor Canadian, so it's an even playing field, politically neutral - not like he worries about such things with Canada.
He's almost bought tickets when he realises there's also a hockey game that night. And it's Leopards versus the Knights. Done.
Unfortunately, he forgets to pay particular attention to the teams. This is his third mistake.
The Vityaz Chekhov - the Knights, based in Chekhov, Moskva - are pretty close to his heart, mostly because they're overly violent, especially when it's a home game. The team is almost all Russian with a few Canadians and one Kazakh. The Barys Astana - the Leopards, based in Astana, Kazakhstan - are not his favourite (though they're better to support than the Metallurg Novokuznetsk who are kind of hopeless this year). That team is mostly made of Kazakhs, with five very good Canadian players - in truth, he's not sure how the KHL managed to steal them away - and a smattering of other nationalities (Czech, Swedish, even two American players, many fewer Russians).
Russia had formerly been in an excellent mood, because Canada had seemed so delighted on the phone when he asked him to the game, and when he'd gone to pick him up from the airport, his heart sort of gave a funny little jolt as they locked eyes from across the room at the arrivals pickup and Canada grinned widely.
But then the hockey game starts and Canada decides to root for the Leopards. When he mentions their Canadian players with glowing, excited eyes, Russia blurts out, "It is good thing you're cute, because bad choice, comrade," without realising what he's said. That's okay though, because Canada doesn't notice the slip. Unfortunately, the reason Canada doesn't notice is because he is too busy flipping his shit in Russia's face.
Amazingly, it doesn't come to blows between them, but it does get close at a few points. Words are said. Glares are exchanged. The people sitting in the row in front of them turn around to shame them into shutting up, and when that doesn't work, a particularly angry Barys supporter in the row behind them screams for silence. So Canada and Russia spend the better part of the second period Not Talking To Each Other.
Russia isn't sure what Canada is thinking but he must not be pleased. Well that's just fine for him, he thinks petulantly, because neither is Russia! There were ... parallels, that could be drawn between Canada and Lithuania. Both shy and quiet, both very submissive. Both beautiful and delicate. He liked all of that in a lover. He also liked willingness but it was usually on his part to be willing to give up that criterion. So Russia had this image of perfect, meek, pretty Canada that was not simply broken but rather entirely decimated by cursing, spitting, aggressive Canada.
Russia feels a little bit betrayed.
Then the third period starts, and Canada breaks the silence to ask, "What the hell? Five forwards? Are, are they insane?"
Russia chuckles. "Ah, yes! Is old Russian play. Called 'no, really, I swear, we're just here to play hockey'." Canada raises an eyebrow and Russia grins. "I assure you, there will not be much hockey playing."
Sure enough, the five Vityaz players wait until a split second after the puck drops to unleash battle fury hell that involves seriously dirty tricks. Barys pulls their goalie to put on another forward as retaliation. Blood is spilled. Teeth are knocked out. Someone gets taken off the ice unconscious. And so, with a filthy but thoroughly entertaining line brawl, Canada and Russia forget that they're angry at each other.
Besides, aggressive Canada has his advantages, thinks Russia, contemplating with vast amusement the boy next to him who is still very pretty and delicate despite the bloodthirsty look in his eyes.
Canada's hotel is nearby the arena, so Russia walks him back after the game.
"Are you staying long in Moskve?" Russia asks him.
"Um, no," Canada says, "uh, only for another two days actually."
Then, he came all the way here for hockey. Russia is more than a little flattered, but too flustered to say anything but, "oh, I see" in reply, which makes him feel silly. Maybe Canada is simply that dedicated to the game. That's probably it.
The five minutes walk is mostly quiet, with Russia pointing out a few interesting things about the city. But the city is a city is a city. He's certain Canada's got cities too. This part of it isn't one of the more interesting, antique parts, either. Although... that's probably for the better, so that he doesn't draw any more attention to how much older he is.
"Well, um, this... is me," Canada murmurs, pointing to the hotel. "Thanks for the game, it was fun."
"Da, anytime," Russia replies.
They both attempt saying something more relevant at the same time, and interrupt each other. Then they both interrupt each other again with 'no, after you'. Every time this happens Russia feels like he should just not bother speaking, ever.
"There is film playing tomorrow night, if you are interested," he offers. "If you are not busy. If you would like." He'll have to scout the theatres to see which ones have subtitles.
Suddenly, Canada blushes, and smiles very, very widely. "O-oh," he replies, "oh, Russia. Um. I- um, I see. I'd, uh, yeah. I'd like that a lot."
He must really like movies. Well! No pressure on Russia to pick a good one or anything. But he manages to keep the grumbling to a minimum as he affirms, if a bit stiffly, "I will pick you up out front at six," and Canada nods, looking a little less nervous.
Unasked for, America's advice - kiss him at the end of the night - floats back to the forefront of his mind.
But while he can't move his feet away, he absolutely cannot do that.
It's different, with a G8 country. A G8 country whose brother is America, whose closest allies are extremely powerful, and who despite being very quiet manages to get along with everybody and so has a slew of people who would back him up. Russia, meanwhile, has nobody. So he can't simply take what he wants, like he could with Lithuania. (Maybe that's for the better, because Toris didn't seem to like that much.)
But he does want. He wants so badly. It's the want that has frozen his feet where they stand. It's the want that makes him lean down, slowly enough that Canada can move away if he doesn't like it. With slight jerking motions, Russia advances slowly, and awkwardly kisses him on the cheek. A compromise between what he can't do but feels he must.
Instantly he's glad he did it. Canada's skin is soft and cool on his lips, and he smells like plain soap.
To his shock, Canada lets him back up only a bit before he leans in himself and presses their lips together. It's a chaste kiss, as far as kisses go, but no less earth-shaking. Russia closes his eyes briefly, giving in to the heady, dizzying sensation that accompanies an inability to breathe or control his heart's wild palpitations.
He recognises the feel of Canada's lips as being only peripherally like America's. The differences are small but numerous.
"See you tomorrow," Canada whispers as they part, and Russia nods shakily.
Russia winds up picking the cinema - as much as he would enjoy taking Canada to the one that features old Russian and Soviet movies, perhaps it's better not to dredge up the complicated political history on what might be a first d- no, don't even refer to it in the mind like that, can't jinx this.
Besides, when there's a cinema in the lobby of Canada's hotel, they really might as well go there. He'll let Canada pick the actual film, which - bonus - removes the pressure from Russia picking a decent one.
When he arrives at the hotel, he begins secretly hoping Canada will pick one that manages to be so absorbing that Canada will be completely distracted from Russia's staring.
Russia can't help it. It's not his fault, he thinks, he's trying really hard not to overtly ogle, but Canada's the one that's decided to dress the way he has! The boy wears a plain green dress shirt that's not only a great colour for him, but also on the tight side, and a pair of dark trousers that is pleated in a sophisticated way to make his legs seem longer. His shoes are shiny and even stylish. Russia doubts he's ever seen Canada look this good - he knows he's fallen hard, but he won't deny the boy's occasional sloppy appearance in meetings.
But the way he looks tonight... oh. It makes him tremble, and at the same time makes him wish he'd dressed up a little more himself. He decided to nix the winter overcoat - it's far too warm for it in the city, it's nearly May - but the long black jacket and grey jeans with a white work shirt is something he wears to the more casual meetings. It's not new, it's not stylish, it's not even that good-looking on him. He owns nicer clothes ... but somehow, everything else in his closet had seemed too dorky or too absurd or too 18th century. Lithuania and Latvia's voices murmured assents in his mind, and that had left him with the long black jacket.
Well. There's nothing he can do about this now.
Besides, Canada is still Canada, underneath the clothes, so when Russia asks him about what he'd like to see from those that have subtitles, he's quiet as he decides and then stammers out his answer - a drama with supposed fantasy elements that he's seen ads for recently - in a voice only a few decibels above a whisper. Russia feels a little bit more confident.
They forego snacks for the moment - although there is a café in the lobby, so Russia might ask him for coffee or tea when the movie finishes - and take their seats in the hall. Not long after, the movie starts.
The film winds up being better in advertisements than it really is, which Russia supposes is the case with much of cinema these days. For awhile he amuses himself by comparing the Russian subtitles to the English dialogue - some things are more accurately translated than others - but mid-way through he is getting genuinely bored.
Apparently Canada is too, because he drops his hand casually on Russia's, lying on the armrest between them. Russia has to force himself not to jerk his hand away as his heartbeat accelerates dramatically, beating out of control. Canada is touching him. Of his own volition. Russia doesn't know what god to thank but he doesn't dare move for fear of breaking the spell.
But Canada doesn't move his hand, and wears a blank and impenetrable expression, his gaze innocently fixed on the screen, when Russia steals glances out of the corner of his eyes.
The chest pains are worrisome. Deep breaths, he thinks, deep breaths. Though irregularities happen on occasion, they usually don't mean anything good. And between last night's game and tonight's movie, his rhythm has been very off. Perhaps he has been overexerting himself. He should probably get it checked out next time he goes to the doctor, but for the moment, he can't do much but try to regain some control. Slowly, as he adapts to the warmth of Canada's hand on his, he calms down. This is his usual remedy: completely ignore the problem, and surely it will go away!
And this is his fourth mistake, because the problem does not go anywhere.
It figures that the second he's gotten used to having Canada's touch there, Canada changes things up a bit. He brushes his fingers over the back of Russia's hand and Russia involuntarily gasps and his heart throbs. It feels lovely, yes, but it's restarted his arrhythmia. And did Canada hear him? he wonders nervously. It was one of the film's louder parts...
Canada continues his motions. He sweeps the thumb back and forth over the narrowest part of Russia's wrist, and deftly draws it towards the underside, where his skin is incredibly sensitive. But he doesn't touch him there, just gets closer and closer. Russia can barely concentrate. His entire body feels like it's on fire - it's a good thing the theatre is so dark, he must be bright red - everywhere Canada has touched is tingling like mad and while it feels brilliant, his heart is meanwhile lurching painfully in his chest. Russia can't take much more of this.
Then Canada boldly extends his elegant fingers forward and smoothes the tips, with their cool little pads, along and down the grooves of Russia's, interlacing their hands. And as he's struck by how beautifully, wonderfully intimate this gesture is - his head is spinning, he's so turned on, and they haven't even shared bodily fluids yet! - he feels a sudden wetness at his chest, under his shirt. His stomach turns with anxiety - no, not this, not now!
Yes now, his body appears to cry. All of a sudden the vise-like grip on his heart has loosened, so he replaces it with the hand Canada isn't molesting, hoping this will stop what is likely to happen.
It doesn't work. His heart gives a few more erratic pounds - it's now half dislodged from his chest, and the wet spreads rapidly on his shirt. He can't do this here. If he doesn't leave soon, his aorta will project blood halfway down the aisle! "Excuse me, please," Russia whispers, and before Canada can say anything he's disentangled their hands with great regret. He darts as quickly as he can out the hall, hoping he's not dripping too much blood on the carpet.
Thank the gods for long legs, because it only takes Russia five seconds to find and get to the men's washroom. It's small - only fits a urinal and a stall - but there's nobody in it so he closes the door behind him and gets his shirt undone. His coat and scarf seem fine; he tosses them over the stall door. The shirt is unsalvageable, however, with a Rorshach-like stain covering his entire chest, and he untucks it before the blood spreads any further south and he winds up losing the pants too.
As he opens the buttons down his chest, his heart literally spills out, still pumping away. He catches it and holds it over the sink to collect and dispose of the blood.
There's something calming about taking care of himself like this, though. It puts him in a meditative mood very easily, and the heart reflects his mood by readily giving up its frenzied spasms and becoming docile. The ventricles throb less powerfully, the little trembles of the outer arteries on the strong muscle quiet as the cardiac cycle slows in his cradled hands. He would probably have made a fantastic surgeon, Russia thinks, as he washes the heart clean, if it weren't for the fact that people are for some reason disturbed the more fascinated you are with their internal organs.
The second his heart stops beating - for now that is, he'll put it back in later and it can reboot safely there - he puts it on the edge of the counter, which, with no paper towel left in the dispenser (naturally), is the only place that seems clean enough.
(By the way, this is his fifth mistake.)
Stupid body, he curses himself, and rolls up his shirt sleeves to wash his hands. Once the cold water rinsing off them is no longer pink, he splashes some on his face and hangs his head over the sink, letting the water drip off the end of his nose and feeling wretched.
Is this what lechery is like? he wonders miserably. Angina symptoms when a beautiful cherub so much as holds your hand?
Maybe he was wrong about all of this. There's no way, certainly, that Canada wants to pursue anything now, not after Russia fled like a coward from his advances, minute as they were. Even though he's got a good reason, Russia is familiar with the sting of rejection. No matter whether what America said is true - that Canada doesn't have many suitors - the boy deserves far better than this, better than him.
After all, what can Russia offer him, anyway? Age, experience? That makes him feel more and more like a character in a Nabokov novel that he doesn't even want to think about now. A colourful and interesting history? Don't make him laugh! That's precisely what Canada needs, someone who really belongs in a sanitorium after centuries of lunacy.
Even if Canada were only in it for the sex, it's not like he is very good at that either, he thinks, grumbling, and remembers Lithuania's pained face staring up at him from pillows.
And unlike Canada, Russia is not much to look at. Look at me, he reflects with no small amount of disgust, in the mirror; and, and look at him - perfectly adorable and lovely and handsome. The two of them are worlds apart.
He hears the door creak open, but doesn't bother lifting his head from where it hangs morosely above the blood-stained sink. The human'll figure out something's terribly wrong and leave him alone in a matter of seconds without him having to speak, because he can't trust himself to speak right now.
"Um, Russia, a-are you okay?"
And the suddenness of Canada's tremulous voice at the door has him snapping his head up so fast it cracks his neck painfully.
The motion, combined with Canada's presence, causes Russia's stupid heart to flutter out of control again, and surprise, there was still a significant amount of blood in its chambers! The uncontrollable throbbing motion tips the heart's balance on the edge of the counter, so it falls onto the filthy ground with a resounding splat, while the stupid aorta propels all of the blood in the chambers everywhere. It happens so quickly Russia can do nothing.
By the time the red liquid dust clears, they're both soaked. Canada has Russia's blood in his hair. Russia is going to have to throw out these pants after all. (Or have them dyed brown.) And the bathroom looks like a murder scene.
"I give up," Russia moans, pinching the bridge of his nose and suddenly wishing he could restart this whole business.
Canada is quiet, and then giggles softly. "I'm, I'm sorry," he says, "I don't mean to, to make fun, I-I just, heh, I completely forgot. About your condition."
"Da," Russia agrees softly, "apparently so did I." He sighs. "Please, I will walk you back to your room. Is probably much cleaner there than here, and there are shower facilities."
It's lucky the theatre is connected to the hotel. They only encounter a few people on their way to the elevator - one is a janitor, so Russia stops the man and asks him (hiding his heart under his jacket and scarf, folded over his arm) to please take care of the mess in the men's restroom before someone discovers it. The janitor looks at both of them and shrugs, like this is nothing new.
When they reach Canada's room, Russia is surprised when he is invited in, and looks at Canada like he's grown another head. "Um, you probably can't take the subway, covered in blood, and holding a vital organ," Canada explains, ushering him in. "We'll, we'll take turns. At the shower. Um. D-do you want to go first?"
Russia nods, and, filling the bathroom sink with a little cool water, deposits his heart into it. It gives him a strange cold and wet sensation in his chest but he'll be in the shower soon, he can warm up there. "Where is your bear?" he asks when he exits the washroom to hang his coat and scarf up.
Canada blushes, and it takes him a moment to realise it's probably because his shirt is still open, exposing his chest. At least there's no gaping wound, that would look disgusting, but the cavity where the heart goes is encircled clearly on his skin in drying blood. "I-it's been a cold winter, uh, and a long one. So, um, I-I usually just leave him at home on NCC grounds. And um, someone from the federal government keeps an eye on him."
"I suppose it must be difficult to get polar bear onto international flight."
"Anyway," Russia says, rolling his shirt sleeves back down, "I will not be long."
"T-take your time," Canada replies quietly.
So Russia steps into the shower first. It doesn't take him long to rinse the blood off his skin - that always disappears pretty quickly with hot water - but it's harder to wash it out of his hair. Luckily, there isn't much and the shampoo rinses clear in a few minutes. The hotel's soap is surprisingly decent quality, he thinks, lathering it on his upper arms. He recognises the scent from Canada's cheek yesterday.
There's a screech of the shower curtain hooks on the metal rod. Before Russia has time to look back - the water is warm, and his mind is foggy from the frenzy of before - a hand reaches around his midsection. It's then that his mind clears and alarms. "What," he begins, not sure how to finish. What are you doing? What is it you want?
"It'll save water, eh?" Canada murmurs from behind, stepping close enough that Russia can feel the heat of his skin along his back. Canada blindly runs his hand along Russia's chest, where the soap has made the skin slick. "I, um. I don't know why you like me. B-but I'm really glad that you do."
Don't know why? Don't know why? he screams internally. He wants to turn around and shake that nonsense out of the boy, but Canada keeps him there where he is.
And then Canada dips his hand lower, and there are no further questions in Russia's mind what Canada must want, or what he is doing, because it is made very clear. "Ah," he sighs, and despite the massive blood loss, apparently there's still enough in him to make him hard within seconds.
"Y-yeah," Canada breathes, kissing gently at a spot above his shoulder blades as he works his hand. "Just like that."
Russia feels his knees weaken with each stroke, and he leans back involuntarily into Canada's naked chest, pressed against his back firmly. He gasps when Canada twists his wrist, and presses a hand against the tiled walls of the shower, to steady himself. Maybe it's the heat, maybe it's the lack of blood, maybe it's been that long - oh hell, maybe it's Canada - but he's had people put their hands on him and he's never felt so sensitive. It's probably Canada.
When Canada rocks against him in reply, Russia discovers he's hard too, and he feels a sluggish thud against cool porcelain, steps away. His heart is calmer now, less heavy, but it's a bit incredible that Canada manages to affect it from a distance. Canada trails the fingers of his other hand dancingly, teasingly, on his shoulder. The touch is fleeting, playful, a complete about-face from the sureness and firmness of the grip around his aching arousal. As Canada moves his hand down Russia's arm, Russia fills in the blanks, suspecting he knows where the boy is going with this. Sure enough, he stops at the hand Russia's placed on the tile, and covers it with his own.
This time, Russia accepts his hand gratefully, allowing his fingers to shift and mesh with Canada's, and the sweet exhaled "oh," from Canada behind him drives him wild.
Embarrassingly, it takes him no time at all, rushing headlong into completion, and before long his grip on Canada's fingers has become tight. He squints his eyes shut and thinks, he should at least try to remain standing through orgasm, it would not do to slip and fall and split his skull. Then his thoughts become muddled and ohyes, yes more like this, please - and then he thinks nothing at all for a few seconds of agonising glory that leave him breathless.
It is only after that Russia finally turns around to face Canada, who is bright red, eyes downcast. His hair is damp and hangs in his face, still somewhat curled despite the weight of water, so Russia brushes it away and tucks it behind his ear. Canada follows the motion of his hand and nuzzles it with his cheek.
He should reciprocate, he thinks, stepping closer to Canada, bowing his head low to place his mouth at Canada's temple - not kissing, just resting. Pressed near his own satisfied and waning erection is Canada's, which is still strong and lustful. Should he get on his knees? He's done that once or twice before, he'd felt silly doing it but it seemed to be well received -
But before he can do anything, Canada whispers, "Take me to bed," and far be it from Russia to deny such a request.
Canada exits the shower first, and Russia notices he takes a towel on his way and wraps it around his waist. Russia does the same. In Russia's case, it's as though what they are about to do has been somewhat forgotten in the wake of his self-consciousness returning like a bad cold post-orgasm, and they have to be somehow decent.
As he follows him out of the washroom, he remembers America - Canada doesn't get a lot of action - so it's possible Canada feels similarly. He doesn't understand why; Canada's nude body is every bit as incredible as he thought it'd be.
When they arrive at the bed, and Canada gives him an expectant look, Russia is again struck with mild shock. He does a good job suppressing it, he thinks, and rather than spend time wondering why - why anybody would initiate this with him, but specifically after all that's happened - the heart, the hockey game - he ignores these feelings and concentrates on the boy.
This is not hard to do. Canada is looking at him, now, but someplace lower than his eyes, with an uncertainty he'd like to kiss away. He's flushed scarlet from the heat of the water. His skin is moist and his lips - Russia stops enumerating his charms in his mind and cuts himself off there. Less time spent admiring with his eyes like a voyeur from the sidelines; if Canada will allow him the option to touch, he'll take it.
Canada steps closer to Russia decisively and seems only a little nervous as he puts his arms around Russia's waist; his hands don't tremble when he presses at the small of Russia's back, forcing their chests together. Then he moans softly, decisively, and pushes Russia gently backwards. Russia lets him; when the back of Russia's knees touch the edge of the mattress, he also lets this motion happen, and he breaks their embrace to sit on the edge of the bed.
Canada is enthusiastic and convinced now, and climbs readily onto his lap, straddling his thighs. This loosens the towel around his waist, but Canada doesn't appear to notice - his arms are around Russia's shoulders, and he's busy paying closer attention to kissing the soft skin of Russia's earlobe.
And Russia notices now how easily the curve of Canada's rear fits in his palm, how very right this feels, how strained the muscles in his thighs are. How easily he has forgotten his insecurities in the wake of sudden overwhelming rekindled want.
Russia watches how Canada's hair falls gracefully, curling on the nape of his neck, feels how soft and smooth the skin is there. He cups Canada's neck and exhales happily. Canada responds by squeezing his thighs around Russia's lap, near his hips, and Russia grips them with a distinct possession. Mine, he thinks, as he rests his big, awkward, clumsy hands at the small of Canada's back. Please be mine.
Canada answers with a sigh and a faint moan, squeezing Russia's shoulders - he'll take that as a yes - and grinds his erection almost helplessly into Russia's hips. And there's a good use for his hands - he leaves his left hand at Canada's back and brings his right along Canada's graceful waist, between Canada's legs, skimming the skin lightly as he goes. Canada moves his mouth over his cheek, and over his lips.
When they finally fit together, it is blissful. Shocking, but blissful. Russia practically melts, he acquiesces so easily, allowing Canada to lead it, letting his mouth open.
It's curious to be on the opposite end. This, he thinks, this is the kind of kiss he used to take from people, with or without their permission. If Canada did not have such friends in such high places, and if he did not fear Canada's rejection so terribly, would he have done the same yesterday?
Oh, the devil take him, he might as well face it - he's completely incapable of doing any real harm to Canada, and probably has been for awhile. And, if Russia were less reticent and more romantic, he might put a name to this face, this face that haunts him, that keeps the potential for destruction within him at bay. But somehow, it feels like calling it by name will give it power, and Russia is disinclined to share his power so gladly. (Which really is fancy talk for he's in love, and he's terrified of fucking it up.)
"Ahn," Canada moans, against his lips, into his mouth, and his grip around Russia's shoulders grows tighter, more desperate. The way he holds onto Russia is so wonderfully needy and incredibly erotic. Very suddenly, Russia wants to touch his bare skin, and so he does, deftly moving the towel aside to seize his erection. The weight is heavy in his hands, the skin is hot and smooth, like silk on iron. He feels his own renewed arousal, trapped against his towel though it is, respond almost violently.
"Canada," he breathes in between kisses -
Canada pulls back. "No," he says quietly, his face flushed, "th-this shouldn't - we should just - um. You should call me Matthew."
He blinks and stills his hand. "Matthew," he tries, though it sounds more like 'Maht-hiu' and he is probably bastardising the pronunciation terribly. Perhaps there's a Russian equivalent, with its own diminutive? "Matthew," he repeats.
Canada - Matthew, rather - nods slowly, stroking his shoulders as though in deep thought. "A-and you?" he asks, in a breathy whisper that has no right being as sexy as it is.
"Ivan," he replies, "or, or Vanya, if you like."
Matthew tilts his head, studying. "Which would you prefer?" he asks.
Ivan bites his lip and murmurs quietly, "Vanya. Please."
So Matthew leans in and whispers wickedly against his lips. "Vanya."
Ivan grabs him about the waist and twists, using the momentum to throw him down on the bed. It'd be a violent act if it weren't for the fact that Ivan didn't throw him nearly as hard as he could have, and besides, Matthew lands perfectly safely on the pillows, grins, and spreads his legs to make room for Ivan's hips. He sighs as Ivan settles over him - both towels are discarded now, and Ivan's forgotten how much he loved the intimacy of this - and his eyes flutter closed. No, it's not terribly violent.
When Matthew moves his hips experimentally against Ivan's, and asks, "Do you, mm, do you have anything?" Ivan raises an eyebrow, hoping he'll elaborate. "You know, for sex?" Have something? For sex? Matthew shakes his head. "O-okay, well that's fine. Um. Last night, I thought maybe, maybe I should - but, heh, I, uh, didn't want to presume, eh? I'll bring some next time, we can just - just like this."
Ivan nods, still not quite understanding.
"Ah - it's probably better this way, actually," Matthew says, shyly, "it's, uh, it's been awhile. For me."
Ivan manages to keep his greener side in check, and instead of asking who, murmurs simply, "Da, me too," which is the truth.
So instead of anything sophisticated, anything elaborate, they rock against each other, like graceless teenagers. It doesn't change the profound nature of the feeling of Matthew, finally against him. Matthew's lustful, wanton gaze, his dilated pupils, his full, bitten lips ... Ivan thinks he will cherish forever the memory of warm flesh, pressing into his, the breathy, shuddery way Matthew sighs when Ivan wraps a hand around him, around both of them together. This is simple, and it is a little clumsy, but no less valuable.
Despite having already finished once tonight, Ivan loses his control first, as though his body is making up for lost time. He buries his head in the crook of Matthew's shoulder and makes some sort of sound as he comes, his hand moving erratically, his muscles clenching, and when he returns to his senses, he finds Matthew writhing beneath him. He figures he should probably loosen his grip but Matthew stops him, telling him, "No - oh, don't be so cautious, Ivan - keep it like that, I like it - oh god, Vanya -"
"Matvei," he replies, his voice rough, and there isn't a diminutive form for it, not really, but that's fine, because as he says it Matthew arches and cries out. Even in the throes of ecstasy he's still very quiet, his cries are little more than vocalised wavering gasps, but Ivan holds him so closely the sound reverberates in his eardrums.
He continues to hold Matthew closely as they both settle, a pleasant lethargy settling over his entire being - two orgasms and significant blood loss will do that to you, he thinks. They should probably get up and get cleaned off, and although Ivan doubts Matthew will turn him away after this - especially not given the way he's playing with Ivan's hair and sighing against him - he shouldn't simply assume he can spend the night.
In a minute, he thinks, kissing the side of Matthew's neck absent-mindedly, feeling his consciousness slip quietly away. He'll get up in a minute.
(He winds up napping on top of Matthew, and when he rouses briefly some thirty minutes later, the warmth on their stomachs has faded to a cool stickiness that isn't very pleasant. But that's a good excuse for another shower, so neither Ivan nor Matthew minds.)
Many years later
America is rounding the corner when he overhears England's voice. "...rica ought to know," he's saying.
"Ah, speak of the devil, and he appears," says France, "Amerique, viens ici s'il te plait."
America advances with caution, unsure if trap or legitimate query. It might be legit. He did get that interesting message earlier about the possible shit storm, so he's got a good idea what this is probably about. "Wassup?" he asks casually.
"There's been this rumour," England says in a hushed voice, "that ... that Canada has been having ... shall we say, relations. Erm. With a certain... less than tasteful country."
"Is he having sex with Russia or not?" pipes up France, and England goes bright red, which is actually kinda hilarious.
America doesn't answer the question one way or the other. "Who's been spreading this?"
England instantly points to France, who purses his lips unhappily. "That is untrue," he says, "I heard it from Serbia who had heard it from Belarus who was complaining to Ukraine who heard it from Austria who had wanted to verify the story Serbia had told him, andwho had spoken to Indonesia who noticed that Canada and Russia booked one room to share at the last APEC conference."
America and England both give him a Look.
"What?" France cries, throwing up his hands in mock innocence. "That is a perfectly reasonable trail!"
"Anyway," England says, "is it true?"
America sighs. "I - look, guys. I got an email from Canada about this earlier, which is totally the only reason I'm sayin' anything about it. After this I think I'm gonna go back to my room and have a beer or something, to get rid of the headache you two're gonna give me, and you ladies can gossip all you want over tea and crumpets." England's eyes bulge out almost comically, but America holds up a hand. England can save the shit fit for later, kthx, there's a Bud with his name on it.
"Yes, they're seeing each other. No, this isn't new, they've just kept it under wraps until now until Belarus got enough Western friends to not depend so hard on Russia's economy. Mattie said they're okay with going public now. Yes, I've known about it for some time. Since the start, actually - hell, I hooked them up for Pete's sake. No, they're not just fucking. Yes, it's serious. Forty years serious. No, it's not political - though it does explain why Russia hasn't asked anybody to become one with him since they started up - so Canada sure as shit is not in danger of becoming a commie at any moment -"
"Really, Russia's more of a socialist anyhow," England interrupts.
"But Canada does have free health care and all those social programs for education," France interjects worriedly.
Then England and France begin bickering some more and America chooses that moment to slowly walk away, feeling the onset of a migraine building.
As he suspects, both England and France track him down in his room later, separately, and because they're his friends, he actually opens the door when each comes a-knockin'.
England's questions are almost entirely political, which he'd expected, and he answers them as simply as he can.
France's questions are equally predictable.
"Do you think," France begins, toying with the sleeve of his shirt, "do you think they love each other?"
America takes a swig of beer. "Oh, no doubt about it," he says, and swirls the liquid in the bottle around, more for something to do than for any other reason, because it doesn't improve the taste. "Mattie's said so to me himself, and Russia, well. Russia doesn't really communicate with words too good, but the big lug's been obvious as all hell about it from day one. It's one of the reasons I let him go."
France quirks an eyebrow in query, and he's feeling kind so he elaborates with a grin.
"Yeah, so, I asked him, long ago once, if he'd be down for something on the side. I was horny, and he was ... well. It was not long after the Cold War, and I guess tensions were still high. On both ends. Anyway, one thing led to another and we got ... y'know, going, on the bed there, and things got hot, and ..."
"And?" France prompts.
"And, right smack dab in the middle of things, he said very clearly, 'Canada'."
France is shocked and quiet for a moment. "How long?" he murmurs finally.
"Dunno. I've never talked to Mattie about it, and for sure I never speak to fuckin' Russia about it either. But, I guess it must have been awhile before that day."
"How do you suppose?"
"Well... I stormed out in a huff. Got pissed, got drunk, didn't talk to Russia for months afterwards. Took me awhile to piece it together. It was all in the way he'd acted when I asked him if he'd be down for a ...diplomatic relations thing. He sorta seemed to look at me, then looked through me, then just looked sad. And he looked away as he said quietly, in this awful kicked-puppy tone of voice, 'Sure, why not.' I knew instantly I wasn't his first choice, but I didn't give a crap at the time. It wasn't until I worked it out that I realised, acting like that, his real first choice must've been someone he really wanted, for more than just fun.
"And, you know Mattie," America continues. "He's been with what, one, maybe two people besides Russia? So there's Russia, wallowing away in unrequited love, and my kid bro, so lonely that someone who'd be willing to devote a decent amount of time to him would make his goddamn year. What else was I supposed to do?"
France will probably tell the world this story. And you know what, let him, because now that Mattie and Russia don't care who knows, maybe someone in the world will appreciate the kind of guy who'd do something like that for the brother that he loves, and the rival that he hated (well, once upon a time anyway). So when France makes his excuses and leaves, America smiles and finishes his drink in silence.
Final notes and translations:
The original title was fail. I tried thinking up a better one and only came up with more fail. God, what the hell is it with me and titles jeezus aitch. D: I'm so sorry guys.
Anyway I think it was well-received for a first-time kink meme fill :) I was going for sort of a creepy-cute Russia here. I hope that succeeded but if not, I have less cute and more creepy Russias in my writing folder so with luck it'll all even out.
Also, I'm not usually a fan of a quick-and-easy happily-ever-after but it appeared to work really well here. Ultimately I don't think they'd be together forever - this Canada is clingy and desperate, and this Russia's got an overactive imagination that helps to build things up unreasonably, and he gets pissy when shit doesn't play out just the way he wants it to, and both of them are insecure as fuck. So I give it 40 years (keeping in mind, the characters are much older and have different timescales than we humans do).
Da, tvoy: yes, yours
pozhaluista: please. Also means you're welcome (it's like bitte in German).
Moskve: reflects the prepositional case. Moscow in Russian is Moskva, but Russia is likely used to saying "v Moskve" when he says 'in Moscow' and hence might not translate the lack of noun declensions in English.
Tak da: lit. 'so yes'. Commonly said when you don't know what else to say.
Amerique, viens ici s'il te plait: America, come here please.
Hope you enjoyed; thank you for reading :)