ficlety stuff

Sunshine - BE Week Day 1

my fic for day one of bottom erwin week ;o; enjoy!!

Pairing: Erwin Smith/Eren Jaeger

Word Count: 8900

Rating: M

Summary: Erwin tends to overwork himself until he meets a boy half his age.

Archive of Our Own

It’s entirely too hot for a suit, but Erwin rolls up his sleeves and hopes for the best. His jacket is over his arm, and he can feel the sweat rolling down his back–maybe even a sunburn spreading across his face.

His meeting broke for lunch and as soon as he had walked outside the building, he had absolutely no idea what to do with himself. The beach is close, but Erwin feels out of place; this is becoming less and less of a vacation than he planned with barely any time to himself or to relax. Opening a new location in Brazil had sounded…more relaxing than what it was turning out to be.

But business is business, he supposes.

He sits on a small wall near the office building and runs a hand through his hair. The gel doesn’t feel as though it’s holding up, but he just needs it to last another two hours or so.

A sound catches his attention, like wheels rolling hard across concrete. Skateboarders, probably, he’s seen them around. He doesn’t pay much attention to them until they finally roll close.

One of the boys stops in front of him, bare chested and bright eyed and Erwin’s throat goes dry.

“Lighter?” The boys asks, motioning to his mouth. Of course he would try for English, Erwin’s pale and out place and sweating in his suit. His English is somewhat rusty, but he’s sure he can manage to keep the conversation going.

2p!America/1p!chubby America

It’s their first time and Alfred is laid out on his bed in nothing more than his superman boxers.

He’d been doing alright, feigning confidence until Tommy pulled his jeans off and settled between his chubby thighs. He’d swallowed nervously and brought his hands up to cover his face and mumbled a shaky Stop.

“Hey, babe, we can take as long as you need alright? Don’t even have to do anything now.” And Tommy sounds so honestly okay with it that he feels a little nauseous, because maybe he won’t sound the same once his boxers come off and maybe he’ll wonder what he ever saw in Alfred and Alfred just wants to curl up somewhere and stop thinking about this.

Tommy stays between his thighs and pets his his sides, runs his hands across his belly and leans down to kiss it.

“What’s wrong?”

And Alfred doesn’t say anything, keeps his hands over his face and shakes his head.

Tommy runs his tongue ring across his teeth and waits, knowing Alfred will say something eventually, hopefully.

Alfred just feels silly right now, thinks that saying he’s self conscious and ugly and fat and all the positive things he’s worked for have just been wiped away will just make Tommy laugh or walk away or both. He listens to the little click click click of Tommy’s ring against his teeth and it helps calm him down.

He finally says something, quiet and muffled by his hands and Tommy leans closer, one hand supporting him and the other still running across Alfred’s belly.

“Won’t laugh, I promise,” Tommy smiles even though he knows Alfred can’t see him.

Alfred tries again. “Why do you like me?”

And Tommy does laugh a little bit. It’s a silly question.

“I like you ‘cause you’re sweet and you put up with my bullshit.”

Alfred pulls his hands away from his face and bites his lip. “And you like me even if I’m not attractive?”

Tommy frowns at that, wants to be angry at him for even thinking it, but he remembers how they met and remembers what Alfred had been working through, is still working through.

“I like your tummy pudge and your chubby thighs and I like laying in bed and kissing you, and I think you’re cute. Really fuckin’ cute, yeah?”

Alfred looks away a little nervously, fidgets and bites his lip harder.

“And maybe you don’t believe me right now, but I’ll say it ‘till you do and you get sick of me saying how fuckin’ adorable you are,” and Tommy smiles, a little lopsided and hopeful and all teeth.

Alfred finally turns back to look at him and Tommy just want to pull him him close.

“Promise?” Alfred says.

“Come here,” and Tommy pulls him up, likes how Alfred fits around him and holds him like he can’t let go. “I promise.”


Eren has a mouth on him, Jean decides, that could always be put to better use. He could tie knots with his tongue and dirty talk until Jean’s cock was straining against his boxers and Jean wanted him to do everything at once, he wanted dark lips wrapped around him and he wanted a wicked tongue licking at the shell of his hear.

It wasn’t fair.

“I love the way you fuck me,” Eren hums, just under Jean’s right ear and Jean’s breath hitches as he takes it in. “How you make my legs shake.”

One of Eren’s hands grabs at Jean’s short hair as he talks, tilting his head to expose his long neck while the other reaches between them to undo their zippers. Jean can feel Eren smile against him, warm and wet, lapping at sensitive skin.

“You always fuck me how I want, I don’t even have to beg.” Jean curses under his breath as Eren tugs his cock free, stroking it slowly.

“I want,” he starts, before swallowing to hold back a small moan. He wants Eren under him, cock flushed red against tan skin and he wants him asking to be fucked.

But Eren’s too self-assertive for that, and in a show of confidence, Eren strokes once more before wrapping his fingers tightly around the base of Jean’s cock.

“You want what? You want me to beg?” Eren laughs and his smile turns sly. “I didn’t even have to touch you to get you this hard and I think you’re this close to begging me to ride you.”

“But you want me to beg.”

Jean’s nod is as pathetic as he’s starting to feel under Eren’s touch.

Old Fruk - kissing

When they sit on the couch together it’s usually to read, the TV in their little house is rarely ever used. Francis will have a hand on Arthur’s thigh and the other on the spine of his book–they’re bony hands, with thick knuckles and thin skin that comes with age, but Arthur doesn’t mind it.

Sometimes his hands moves upward, run over Arthur’s worn jumper and curl around his neck and settle there. Arthur joins, moving his hands from his book to hold on to Francis and there are soft kisses on the couch that looks as old as they do. It squeaks and sags as they move towards one another, but neither notices much anymore.

Their kisses have slowed with age, no more hungry need or quick relief. They’re quiet, with a hand in Francis’ hair and a hand around Arthur’s neck.

They’re simple and a little old-fashioned.

Arthur shifts and moves away from Francis’ lips, kisses his neck just as slowly and he hears Francis give a small laugh as he rests his head there.

And then it goes quiet–just the sound of their breathing.

Francis raises an eyebrow and pushes against Arthur’s shoulder only receiving a soft snore in return. He starts to laugh harder until his breath catches and he tries to wheeze softly so he doesn’t wake up the other.

Sleep catches them like this more often than either would care to admit.

Old FrUK

Arthur’s hips aren’t as good as they used to be and when they walk down to the corner market for groceries he has to stop–holds on to Francis and grimaces. Francis smiles, says You should get a cane, dear and Arthur glares–grinds his teeth and tightens his grip on the other.

“I don’t need a fucking cane.”

He’s a stubborn old bastard, as much as his body aches with every refusal for help. His mind is as sharp and pigheaded as it was at twenty-two and doesn’t want to notice that his joints are some three times that age.

Francis carries most of the groceries home, trying not to admit that he’s starting to slow down as much as Arthur. He takes satisfaction in knowing that it’s only when there’s a bit more work to do than usual. (Certainly not in the condition he was at half this old age, but it’s something and a little something means he can brag. Even if it’s not getting as tired carrying extra groceries as the old man with the bad hip walking next to him.)

He can hear Arthur laughing as his breathing gets louder, but neither of them comment.


Dinner is a simple affair. Arthur measure and chops and Francis puts together the meal–it’s a routine they’ve had for longer than either can remember and it works as well as it had twenty years ago. It’s become quieter, though, certainly. Old age has brought contentment and washed a way a bit of anger and spitfire.

(A bit.)

A pair of bickering old fools they are, no matter their age.


They leave the dishes in the sink to do in the morning and shuffle off to bed.

Sometimes there’s a kiss on the lips before they crawl under the sheets, sometimes not and neither complains. They don’t move in close and hold each other, it’s too damn hot, they say, they’re fine on their own sides of the bed–Francis with three pillows and Arthur with one.

There aren’t many I love you’s before sleep catches them either, but there doesn’t need to be–they’ve certainly stuck around this long.

we're alright now [pruhun]

It’s Saturday night and Gilbert sneaks in through her window like he’d always joked of doing half blind. He’d scuffed his shoes against the windowpane and smacked his head, but she just laughed and helped him through.

His smile is lopsided when he sits on her bed, showing his crooked teeth and his eyes squint when he does, the pink circling them disappearing behind white lashes. One cheek dimples and sometimes she dreams about kissing it at night but there’s an uncomfortable knot in her stomach when she wakes up each and every time.

She isn’t sure what she wants, but at the very least she knows she likes having him here, whether they’re laughing or sitting in silence in the dark.

He starts to speak and she shushes him and covers his mouth with her hand. Her parents just a few walls beyond her own and Gilbert had never been too good about shutting his mouth. When she lets up, he huffs and tries again, softer this time if a little raspy like his words are stuck, struggling to come out all at once.

He closes his mouth and tries again and Erszébet knows it isn’t what he wanted to say at first, but she listens. They were never good at poking or prodding or asking, really, but maybe that’s why she likes this.

They sit like that, toe to toe on her bed, talking about nothing of importance, but things she knows she won’t soon forget and it makes her smile as she picks at the strings on her ratty sleep pants.

Gilbert looks ridiculous in his sweatshirt; it swallows him, hood pulled over his head and bright messy bangs peeking under it. She leans forward, pushes it down and ruffles his hair and he shifts and twists under her hand and tries to push her away.

He tries pouting but a smile sneaks through and she just shakes her head and smiles back.

Idiot.” Her tone is soft when she says it though and she ruffles his hair one more time, leaving it even messier than before.

They sit there in quiet laughter, cold toes still touching and Erzsébet is sort of caught off guard when she thinks of kissing him here like this in the dark.

She doesn’t hesitate much though, leans in before Gilbert realizes she’s not trying to push him off the bed and it’s all lips at first; they’re dry and chapped but it’s nice still.

They both pull away a little awkwardly, licking and touching their lips, barely looking at one another.

Her stomach doesn’t knot this time around.

The second kiss is wetter, lips slightly parted and she can hear Gilbert taking quick breaths through his nose. She wonders if he’s nervous.

She’s never really known him to be unsure of himself though, not around her, and she doesn’t mean to laugh but some part of her finds it sweet and a little ridiculous.

He pouts for real this time so she kisses him again but doesn’t apologize for her laughter.


They spoon awkwardly that night, both a little too excited for sleep and nervous about what tomorrow means for them and this, but Erzsébet kind of likes his skinny hands on her waist, just above the band of her sleep pants and cold on her skin.

She thinks they’ll be okay.

Vampire!Arthur taking care of human Alfred

It’s 3 A.M and the grocery store is rather empty, the florescent lights flickering a little green. He likes the quiet hours of the morning, has to with his predicament, but he genuinely had enjoyed the night on his own.

Now he’s buying diapers for the child that keeps him up during the day time, the child that had appeared on his doorstop, crying in the cold air and looking pinker than Arthur had been in centuries.

(Centuries and this was the sort of thing that had never happened to him. He hadn’t had children of his own, and was thankful for that, he never had to watch them grow old as his skin simply grew paler after he turned.

He almost regrets it. He isn’t sure what to do with the thing. It cries and whines and its face goes red and as he lifts it in its blankets from the doorstep. Arthur simply stares.)

He’s used to the crying, and oh how that boys cries and screams, but he’s rather cute when he’s smiling and it’s almost worth the walk to the store.

He stares at the items in the baby aisle, always does, thinks something like Of all fucking people and those working give him pitying looks, think he’s a father who’s been woken up during the witching hour by a crying child and not quite. He’s thankful it’s while he’s awake, at the very least.

He doesn’t enjoy their pitying looks, though, he wants turn around and hiss, show his teeth. He could bite them and drain their some six quarts of blood, snap their necks quicker than they could realize, but he’s an upstanding citizen of sorts so he refrains.

Tonight though, he doesn’t mind.

For an immortal creature he feels rather dreadful and he isn’t looking forward to going back to a crying child.


It’s somewhere off line three that they stop for a nice dinner and Arthur complains about an overcrowded metro system and the smell of piss.

His body language is tense, pulled close because of the biting January cold and an argument he is holding in the back of his throat, something thick and red and repetitive, Francis is more than certain.

Francis entertains reaching for Arthur’s hand but he laughs quietly to himself and reaches for his cigarettes instead, something to warm his hands since the other man’s won’t.

He isn’t very certain what anyone would call them, what strangers passing on the street would say. He isn’t even sure people stare at anything but their polished shoes as they rush through the crowds.

Copin sounds old, something laced with out of date morals for two indignant and stubborn men and petit ami is something Arthur scoffs at when he feels it alright to put any French he’s learned to use.

Too young, he says.

So Francis decides not to call them anything.

He decides to smoke.

Arthur’s sweet smelling cloves find their into his open pack and he wonders if the other man does it for himself or if he does it for Francis in something of a romantic gesture.

Don’t forget me, they say, too dark against the white paper box.

He offers one to Arthur without thinking and smiles, knowing he will taste
smoke and honey when he kisses him later, tonguing yellowed teeth and sharp canines. Paris has always brought with it romantic thoughts, even with someone as coarse and calloused as the man beside him.

He entertains smoking one while Arthur is gone, to see if it will taste the same as his tongue and smell like the must that’s settled on his overcoat, but he never does. (Instead he waits for sharp kisses and painful touches, because he knows it will leave an awful taste in his mouth and an awful stench on his clothes.

Whatever that says about them, he thinks, that is what they are.) 

When Francis finally reaches for Arthur’s hand, he accepts.

It’s just the city, he lies, and both quietly wish for another argument because it’s the easiest feeling to do.

And through the cloud of death (WWI - England in the trenches)

It smells like death.

There are bodies rotting in the trenches and his men ignore them as best they can, have to if they want to work through the smell and the sight of decomposing flesh.

The bodies have been stripped of munition and their supplies and given to his other men, but death seems to follow closely– bullets, bombs and gas catching each man quicker than the last.

Arthur is no stranger to death, but its swiftness is something he isn’t used to. He’s never seen this man made death work its way over so many men and for the first time in a long while, he’d say he was a little frightened by his old friend.

The rotting smell is strongest near him, and he is sure those thousands of his dead men will linger over him long past than the war’s end, but he knows his dead will linger over his enemy far longer.

“You alright, Captain?” It’s a boy too young to be here, sallow face, sunken eyes and a wound that won’t heal until he’s dead.

And Arthur has tried to heal his own–shot himself and woke up with a scar on his temple and the same memories he wanted rid of, but death was the prize of his men and something he would always chase after in envy.


“I’m alright, boy.”

He isn’t, though. His right foot is numb and he knows what that means, but his men deserve medical attention before him, so he leaves the rot to set in.

“With all due respect, sir, you smell awful.”

Arthur has two cigarettes left and hands one to the boy. The smoke masks the smell, if only for a few moments.

“Gangrene,” he says simply. He scratches his temple and feels the pucker of scarred flesh.

The boys nods in return. “Think you should cut it off before it gets too far, sir.”

Underneath his boot, the skin is blotched with red, from the rot and from blood.

The boy gags, whether from the sight or the overwhelming smell and Arthur dismisses him to get a doctor.


It’s amputated a few inches below his knee and it’s an awful sight, red wrinkled scars and large stitches. The bandages dirty quickly, but they don’t have the supplies to re-wrap the wound each time blood seeps through.

Arthur wonders if it will become infected again, and for his men’s sake, hopes it doesn’t.

He’s relied on them quite enough.


Based off this pic

pruhun dystopia

(this is slightly incoherent, I’m sorry.)

He starts chain smoking, figures his lungs are already black from the factories, that he doesn’t really need the extra years on his life. He wants death to come around faster. Tomorrow, he hopes, and he likes how the word sounds as it rolls off his tongue until it never comes. (White bones push through his skin and he looks half dead anyway, smaller and paler than he’s ever been and if the smoke doesn’t kill him, perhaps his own body will– he wants his heart to grow weak and stop.)


Gilbert finds her at two in the morning looking just as lost as he feels.

He remembers the clock tower chiming once then twice and seeing her walk below it.

She’s pretty, he thinks.

Her face is a little hollow and it makes her green eyes stand out even more, but they’re the prettiest thing about her. Gilbert laughs, I’m getting soft (but maybe it’s alright to be a little soft when he hasn’t cared about something in years or taken notice of much except his wrists getting smaller, just waiting until he breaks.)


When he runs a hand through Erzsébet’s hair his fingers get caught on knots and she laughs.


He’s seen plenty worse.

She asks him if she should cut it and he frowns, tells her he likes her hair as he pushes some behind her ear.

“It’s difficult to take care of,” and she steals his cigarette and looks away. Erzsébet can see the sun coming up over some of the buildings in the city.

Gilbert shrugs. “If it’ll make you happier.”

When he sees her next, her long hair is gone and she looks younger, boyish and he teases her about it. He doesn’t tell her she still looks nice.

drowned lake fic - can/am

(Briana writes Al as the dead boy and I write Matt as the dead boy–we thought it’d be fun to see them from both perspectives.)

It’s foggy when he goes to swim in the lake in the mornings. It settles over the water like a thin white veil making it appear much darker than it’s normal greenish hue, almost black. It looks endless.

Alfred likes the solitary feeling that comes with the drizzle and fog.

Some days, however, another boy seems to join him. Alfred sees the him swimming in the middle of the lake, farther than he ventures unaided and alone. (Alfred had promised his mother never to wander so far from the dock and so he keeps to his word, though he wonders if his mother would be alright if he joined the other boy.

He wouldn’t be alone.)

The boy drifts–floating endlessly and slowly. Alfred stares some mornings, never gets in the water, but sits on the edge of the dock and kicks his feet. He wants to talk with him, shout at the other boy, but he’s afraid of what and who he will disturb.

The boy never speaks, never acknowledges him, and even when Alfred is certain his movements in the water are audible the boy continues to stare at the sky.


It’s on a morning he’s come later than most that Alfred finds himself shouting at the other boy.

“How are you?”

The boy in the water turns his head slowly and stares at Alfred. He seems unsure of what to do, like no one’s dared speak with him before, but before Alfred can think of something else to say, he ducks under the water, small ripples where his his body had been.

He doesn’t seem to come up for a breath.

Alfred tells himself he isn’t looking in the right places for the boy to break through the surface of the water for air. It’s odd, but he thinks nothing of it.

He hadn’t meant to scare him off.

older!Francis & Young!Alfred

Francis isn’t quite sure how it spirals so out of control. Alfred had been the first to kiss him, but he had certainly kissed back and they simply hadn’t stopped from there on. He told Alfred no the first time, no, for my sake and yours but Alfred continued to push and Francis never pushed back–never wanted it to stop, if he were honest.

He questions it, though, everyday when Alfred stops by after school, comes behind the counter and steals a pastry like he works at Francis’ little shop. (And sometimes he does, when baseball practice lets out early or he doesn’t have much homework for the day. Francis is grateful, smiles as he watches Alfred with the customers, but he can’t help the guilt that swells in his belly, grows the longer Alfred is there.)

Kisses are stolen when Francis is closing up shop. Alfred laughs into them and Francis kisses back and hopes no one is watching from the street this late, hopes no one recognizes either of them.

As much as he hates the think about it, he does–Alfred’s so young and Francis has a son he’s raising alone and he can’t bring Alfred home to meet him no matter what this was to become. He doesn’t tell Alfred that his son is the same age, like admitting it would make it worse than it is. He’s sure the boy would take it and laugh, though, say they’d get along just fine, but somehow that scares Francis even more.

Quiet,” Ivan grimaces, and slams Alfred’s head hard against the wood, hand tight around his throat.

Alfred’s hard as he ever was, tonguing a few splinters in his cheek. He feels Ivan working at his slacks, a little rushed and clumsy, but Ivan just pulls hard enough to tear the buttons and lets them fall.

Alfred curses what he can with his face going a little purple and Ivan’s hand still around his throat. He pushes back against him, elbows Ivan as hard as he can in his position and it works, if only for a moment.

“Fuck you,” and Alfred feels the blood running down his lip from where Ivan had busted that with his blow against the desk. He kicks Ivan’s knees out from under him and down the red giant goes.

As much as Alfred had wanted him to hit his head on one of the chairs on his way down, it doesn’t happen, but Alfred had always been one to take care of things himself and straddles Ivans, grabs his hair and slams down.

He thinks Ivan’s bitten his tongue by his reaction and he does it again, hearing a nice crack against the hard wood floors. Does it again and again until Ivan’s swallowing more blood than spit and now Alfred has him just where he wants him.

He reaches between them to undo Ivan’s suit pants, and even after all that, he’s still hard.

“You’re fucking sick, you know that?” Alfred laughs, sharp. He takes a bit of sick pleasure in it, knocking Ivan around and getting to fuck with him.

“Me kicking the shit out of you get you off, big guy?”

Ivan spits at him, mostly blood.

Alfred looks at the tail of his shirt, now mostly mottled red and when he looks back to Ivan he laughs again, a little raw, before slapping him.

“Think that means you do.”

lake fic - can/am

part 1

Alfred comes back the next morning with no intention to swim. He wonders if the boy will be back like he has been each morning previous, but his frightened swimming yesterday makes Alfred question it.

He isn’t sure what he expects to find–the boy sitting at the edge of the dock waiting for him or if he doesn’t want to see him at all. When he finds no one sitting there he breathes a little easier, unaware he’d been so tense. He’s a little disappointed in his reaction.

Today he’s brought a blanket instead of a towel and wraps it around his shoulders as he sits down. It’s foggier than it has been and Alfred squints, though it doesn’t help, but he continues to do so and search around the lake. His hearts jumps when the water ripples, hopes it isn’t wind, but nothing appears the moments after.

Nothing comes out of that morning and he wonders why his hearts heavier than it had been when he arrived.


It’s a week before he sees the boy again.

When he does, he sees hands gripping onto the last wood plank of the dock and he doesn’t want to assume, but as he gets closer he makes out blonde hair–it’s a messy, and a bit knotted.

The boards squeak as he walks closer and Alfred has never been more aware of how loud they are. He slips off his shoes and pads barefoot towards the other boy.


The boy looks as though he might slip back into the water and under the dock, hiding away once more. Alfred says stop before he realizes what’s happened.

“I’m sorry, I mean, you can go, but please don’t be afraid of me.”

The other boy looks up at him from under blonde eyelashes and wet hair. His skin is the color of fog and Alfred isn’t sure if it’s because of the mist he looks so pale, veiling him as it does the lake. It’s almost unnatural.

(He dismisses the blueish hue that frames his face as water reflecting off his skin.)

Alfred moves closer and makes to sit down near the other boy and sees him flinch. “Sorry. Again. I’m Alfred.”

The boy shifts on the edge of the dock. “Matthew.”

Alfred smiles.

dead lake - can/am

Drowning is an odd sensation.

Alfred’s lungs have swallowed water before, but nothing like this–it’s calmer and more welcomed. It’s simple blessed breathing like he’s above the surface and gasping that beautiful breath after having been under water for too long (only the water stays in his lungs, settles comfortably.)

He looks up towards the surface and tries to make out shapes, but as he descends deeper the hazy blue from the sky fades completely to murky green. I miss you he thinks, and the sky has always been so precious to him, but he knows he’ll see it soon even if he’ll never be able to touch it as he once dreamed.

(It’s a sacrifice he’s willing to make.)

Now it’s beginning to burn.

It’s cold and uncomfortably silent as the water fills up his ears, makes them burst. His eyes sting and his body is pressing further and further in on itself and hurts, but it’s for Matthew (and he look so calm the further down he pulls Alfred.)

(He wants to look like that, wants to touch him, wants to be the one dragging Matthew down instead.)

He hates how long it’s taking him to die, to swallow the lake completely and wake up a little blue and bloated and see Matthew smiling beside him. (He’s never wanted something so badly and his heart is thumping rapidly, betraying the sensation the rest of his body is feeling.)

Matthew begins to pull him close as they reach the bottom of the lake–waxy arms grip him and hold him down. He watches Alfred with unblinking eyes.

His vision is fading from green to black and Matthew floats closer until his body is flush against his. There is no warmth he can feel, but it’s comforting still.

Matthew’s lips press against his and they’re purple and swollen (such a different sensation than kissing him above the water and he decides he enjoys this so much more.)

It’s the last thing he remembers before blacking out.

[RusAme] i missed your skin when you were east


It’s early January and America is somewhere in Berlin. He’s fixated on the permeating dampness and gray buildings that grow darker as he walks.

It’s hazy and nothing like D.C. He misses his white stone and red brick set against blue skies. The world’s last bastion of hope.

He believes it.


He smokes, but these days, even Germany does, to calm frayed political nerves. Still, as he works his way down to the last cigarette in the pack, he refuses to smoke any German brand. His fingers shake and he runs them over his lips, nervous habits and calming gestures and nothing works.

He wonders if Russia ever smokes awful East German cigarettes.


America plays with the cross around his neck and the dog tags from two world wars. The ones from Vietnam are in his desk drawer, locked and wrapped in an old handkerchief.

Their weight has never been comfortable around his neck.

Winter feels bad this year in D.C. but he can only assume Russia’s is that much worse.

He looks at the phone on his desk, roladex of names and numbers beside it. He could call Moscow or St. Petersburg, but he hasn’t since Reagan and it had only left a bitter, ashy taste in his mouth when he did.

He touches the receiver and laughs. They’d trace the call.

He pours himself a drink instead.


He shakes hands with Yeltsin and sees Russia somewhere in the distance, too big to miss. Yeltsin is amicable enough, but Russia says not a word.

The nations haven’t spoken for nearly 4 years and America thinks it might weigh as heavy on Russia’s chest as it does his.

He hopes, at least.


Russia finally shakes his hand in spring. Relief is there, and America straightens his back and nods. The smiles feel almost too intimate and both wonder how long it’s been.

“You good?”

“Well enough, America.”


Erzsébet’s hair is ratty–she hasn’t had a reason to comb it out in days. (It falls limp and that reflects more of her than she cares to admit.) Gilbert’s is just as bad, sticking up and dusted black from the mines.

She shakes her head and picks out the soot. He’s used to it by now and bends his head forward for her as he lights his cigarette.

(Their cigarette. They can’t afford not to share.)

They’re away from the street lamps in a small alleyway. They hate sitting on the wide streets, they feel to open, too exposed–the smallness offers them some comfort at least, though, not from the cold. It nips and their hands through the holes in their gloves and clothes that are wearing thin. (If Gilbert’s feeling generous he’ll offer his overcoat without a word. When he isn’t, he’ll ask for anything he can get in return and smiles what he can with skin stretched thin.)

(She’ll laugh and kiss him on the cheek with dry lips.)

They’re bitter and old and they try make the best of their time with shitty cigarettes and worse weather.

They laugh because there isn’t anything else to do.

They meet at 13, awkward-limbed in middle school.

They’re both blonde and a little rough around the edges, only Tommy dreams of playing guitar and smiling to strangers and Amelia dreams of the emptiness of space and stars and planets she won’t be able to visit in her lifetime.

She says his dream won’t ever come true and he shrugs and pushes her in the dirt only to help her up and stumble through and apology.


Their first kiss is in one of the girl’s bathrooms in high school and Tommy never forgets it because it was one of the most embarrassing moments of his life but God, Amy’s lips were soft and even though they tasted too much like lipstick that she’d stolen from her mom’s medicine cabinet, he wouldn’t have traded it for anything.

She’d gotten mad at him for dying his hair, some dark cherry brown, and honestly thought she might be able to wash it out in the bathroom sink only to end up mostly getting herself wet and laughing until her sides hurt.

The kiss had been weird, like summer heat and the fourth of July and quiet chords playing in the back of their throats. They don’t stop until someone pushes open the door with a gasp.

It still makes Amy laugh.


When she’s applying for college Tommy is signing a record deal and when he comes over to tell her what he’s gotten himself into she jumps in excitement (because if Tommy’s dreams come true then hers will too, it’s a given with them.)

He’s never used girlfriend and she’s never said boyfriend, but they kiss that night and don’t bring it up, don’t talk about what it means if he’s gone so much because they don’t assume the worst.

They don’t really know if they love each other just yet, but respect is close enough and when Amy finally leaves for college he promises to visit


2p!America/Fem!America rock au druggie thing yeah it’s the beginningwriting is really hard ;~; and i probs won’t finish this