As The Bird Flies

3

1946, during the strained period between the Soviet Union and the United States

Moscow, RSFSR, in the home of the Soviet Union

It was raining when he slipped inside the house, shaking himself off, shuttering like he wasn't currently wearing three coats over his shoulders. Soviet watched him, carefully, ascending to host only when United's shaking hands couldn't get the first coat off of his shoulders.

"Where are your children?" America asked, tilting his head, "Dead? Or maimed in some basement somewhere? God, it's fucking cold."

"It's spring," Soviet replied, "it can't be that cold."

America's nose scrunched.

"And my children are not dead," he said, firmly, "never say that to me again. I sent them away from town since you are here. I'm sure you can understand why?"

America's gaze slipped to the eyepatch over his right eye, before he smirked, "It looks good on you."

Soviet scowled, trying not to think about it, "Let's just get down to business."

America wasn't shaking as fiercely anymore. He nodded, slipping the second coat from his shoulders, shimmying it off in a way that made Soviet give him a raised brow. America just gave a small smile, before pulling the glasses from his face, showing the red and black eyes that he occasionally saw in his nightmares.

"What is it that you want?" Soviet asked, now even more curious than before. America rarely took off his glasses. If he did, then it normally meant he was being honest. The other ambled over, studying his fingernails.

"Well," America sighed, "I don't think we need to fight."

"Do you now? Why the change of heart?"

America was close enough to reach out and grab the lapels of his coat, pulling himself forward with them- Soviet was too big and heavy for him to push or pull around.

"Well," he licked his teeth, gently biting on his lower lip. He didn't look him in the eye, instead counting the number of buttons on his jacket, "it has come to my attention, that despite our differences, we are still primal beings at heart. How wondrous to employ our inner animals, don'tcha think?"

He wasn't sure whether to feel sick or aroused. This could prevent war. It could also be a trap. He felt America roll his hips, pressing himself against his chest.

Ah, fuck it. Knowing how many beds America has occupied, this could just be him thinking with his dick instead of his brain.

He wrapped his arms around his body. America smiled, a far off look in his eye as he let his head drop back, exposing the skin there. A coat was immediately pulled off and thrown to the side.

Soviet, not wanting to waste time, picked America up, tossing him over his shoulder, hearing his very loud, 'What the fuck?' and feeling his kicks land on his chest and stomach, but ignoring it. He already knew what he wanted to see. He wanted America bare before him, because even though that meant he was closer to losing, it also meant he was closer to winning.

America only grunted as he was gingerly laid down on the bed, giving him whatever he wanted as he kissed and nipped at the flesh of his neck. He tugged at his jugular and felt a flinch, but that was the only opposing reaction to what he was doing. It was too easy. Shamefully easy.

He had believed America's skin to be grafted into different colors, with sharp lines of distinction between the skin tones. In actuality, his skin was like watercolor paint, swirling over his chest and arms. He was scarred over his stomach, and Soviet made sure to run his thumb over it. America only whimpered and evaded, shame evident on his face.

The area over his heart was white. His wrists were black and scarred- at some point, chains had kept him locked. His fingertips were also black, with small scars on them, as if he'd been poked with a needle all over. Like a tiger, he had a white belly, all the way down to his slowly hardening member. His ankles were black and scarred, just like his wrists, something he only noticed when he dropped America's legs from his shoulders.

Since America was obviously trying to get something out of him, he decided he might as well make it feel good. He employed most of his skills, watching the other squirm under his affections until tears welled in his eyes and he choked on his moans.

"What's wrong?" he cooed, lovingly, twitching his fingers up. America hissed, his head tossing to the side, "Overworked? I didn't think you could get overworked- what was it you said that one time: so far only two people have reduced me to voicelessness? I guess that makes me the third."

"Shut up," America mouthed the words, still squirming in discomfort. Soviet laughed, looking down at him almost lovingly. He made to wrap himself in his thighs again.

It was another hour before he finally decided to stop. America was reduced to nothing but delirium- he had won. But he had lost so much too, in those hours. He wondered how much he told just by his expression. Or if America was confident enough to have brought one of his colonies into his home to steal from him. Or maybe he was just reading too much into it.

The man beside him groaned, rolling over onto his side before sitting up. He whimpered in pain, but Soviet couldn't bring himself to pay attention to that. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but couldn't bring up the words to say, instead reaching out gently with his hand to run his fingers across the whip scars on his back.

America froze and gasped instantly. Silence ate the room like frost, settling deep into both of their stomachs. Choosing his next action as wisely as he could, he leaned over to press a kiss to where two scars intercepted, feeling his eyelashes flicker over the spot for another moment before he pulled away.

A choked sob came from America's throat. He wondered if he was the first to hear him cry. In seconds his elbows were on his knees, and he cried like he was a child, even though he was older than him. Soviet felt a spark of pity, moving to wrap his arms around his stomach. He sighed, gently, squeezing him a little tighter as the sobs began to increase.

America spun in his grasp, wrapping his arms around his neck. He knew he shouldn't let such a serpent so close to his throat, but he understood that at this moment the snake was not here to squeeze, rather seeping in the heat he gave off in a form of comfort.

He kissed him on the cheek, trying to comfort him, running his hands along the scars and trying to remember their placement on his body.

There was no winner and no loser, at this moment. Just sinners trying to make due.