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Dumbed down and numbed by time and age
It's a secret, this little thing they have.
Silent glances in meetings, even quieter touches and murmurs when there's a break between speakers. It could pass for healthy, loving even, except for the part where they both know it's anything but. Canada wasn't the one Russia had wanted, he was a stand in, a person settled for because of the shape of his face and the span of his shoulders.
They look alike, you see. Canada, and his brother.
But Russia could never have America, not the way he wants him and Canada.....well, the soft spoken young man shares features and figure. It's enough that Russia can press close and cover Canada's mouth with his own and forget that there's not a firecracker of an American nation underneath him, can press his face into the curve of neck and trick himself into believing that the two nations smell the same and that America's the one he's bending over a desk, America's the one who'll bear the shape of his hand prints on hips and the half-moon line of his teeth at his shoulder.
And perhaps Russia wasn't the one Canada wanted either, not really. But Russia could see him, remembered his name and his position on the map, knew where their borders were separated by the span of ocean and ice and America's land. And perhaps the only thing Canada had wanted was the acknowledgement, the warmth of arms around him and the hum of conversation.
It's anything but healthy and for that, the secret is one that must never get out lest thing turn even worse for the two of them. But they are close enough in border and space for the little coffee 'dates' to go unremarked upon. For the little touch of fingertips to the back of hands, the brush of knees under tables. So perhaps that's where they are this time, dressed casually and seated close in one of the nooks hidden away in a coffee shop in the middle of one of Canada's cities.
There's a warm mug of tea in Russia's hands, the turning of leaves outside belying the chill of the oncoming fall, but its cozy here, knees tucked against Canada's, scarf wound loosely about his neck. He's a bit preoccupied watching the people pass by and the leaves fall in solitary fashion. But it's okay, because Canada's tucked into his own drink and the newspaper in front of him. A pretense, perhaps, but one nonetheless.
"Do you think--" Russia pauses to sip at the tea in his hands, brows drawing heavily above his eyes and falls silent.
Silent glances in meetings, even quieter touches and murmurs when there's a break between speakers. It could pass for healthy, loving even, except for the part where they both know it's anything but. Canada wasn't the one Russia had wanted, he was a stand in, a person settled for because of the shape of his face and the span of his shoulders.
They look alike, you see. Canada, and his brother.
But Russia could never have America, not the way he wants him and Canada.....well, the soft spoken young man shares features and figure. It's enough that Russia can press close and cover Canada's mouth with his own and forget that there's not a firecracker of an American nation underneath him, can press his face into the curve of neck and trick himself into believing that the two nations smell the same and that America's the one he's bending over a desk, America's the one who'll bear the shape of his hand prints on hips and the half-moon line of his teeth at his shoulder.
And perhaps Russia wasn't the one Canada wanted either, not really. But Russia could see him, remembered his name and his position on the map, knew where their borders were separated by the span of ocean and ice and America's land. And perhaps the only thing Canada had wanted was the acknowledgement, the warmth of arms around him and the hum of conversation.
It's anything but healthy and for that, the secret is one that must never get out lest thing turn even worse for the two of them. But they are close enough in border and space for the little coffee 'dates' to go unremarked upon. For the little touch of fingertips to the back of hands, the brush of knees under tables. So perhaps that's where they are this time, dressed casually and seated close in one of the nooks hidden away in a coffee shop in the middle of one of Canada's cities.
There's a warm mug of tea in Russia's hands, the turning of leaves outside belying the chill of the oncoming fall, but its cozy here, knees tucked against Canada's, scarf wound loosely about his neck. He's a bit preoccupied watching the people pass by and the leaves fall in solitary fashion. But it's okay, because Canada's tucked into his own drink and the newspaper in front of him. A pretense, perhaps, but one nonetheless.
"Do you think--" Russia pauses to sip at the tea in his hands, brows drawing heavily above his eyes and falls silent.
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Canada is known (for those who bother to notice) for his honesty, but if he were open about how close he and Russia had become, well... for certain England would be enraged. Perhaps a few others, too. But he tries to not think about the 'what if' very much. Instead he relishes this small rebellion.
He's under no delusion of what this is. It's not healthy on several levels, no matter how it looks on the outside. But damn, it satisfies a need that no one else is bothering to fill. A need to be paid attention to and talked to. To be touched, and loved. So he doesn't really care that he's just fuelling Russia's illusion. He doesn't even mind the bites and bruises, easily yielding to (and even enjoying) Russia's rough, controlling way with him. For however long they will meet each other's needs like this, he will continue on.
But Canada is (for those who get to know him) a country that forms loyal relationships. And as this arrangement carries on, Canada slowly finds himself enjoying this for himself. He wonders how soon the day will come that he will be jealous of his brother's image that Russia sees when they meet in dark rooms and shadowed corners.
For now Canada is enjoying this date, away from the other nations, away from the hyper-consciousness of every touch in that context. Here he can relax, the slight warm press of Russia's knees against his a comfort.
At the sound of Russia's soft voice Canada looks up from the paper and looks with faint concern at the way his face looks heavy with the thought he didn't finish. They have been too intimate for too long for him not to worry at those slight hints. Resting the newspaper on the table Canada boldly reaches over to lightly touch Russia's shoulder as he leans closer.
"Think what?"
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So no, it's not a thing Russia likes to think of often.
But is that really bad in this case? Because while it's not healthy and it only fuels Russia's illusion, it's something the both of them need to some degree. They're both starved for attention, for love, and though this might not be what they really want....it doesn't actually hurt does it? So they can meet and touch and maybe even love and it might all be shrouded in secrecy and lies but in the end they both knew that's what they were getting into.
And sometimes Russia finds it hard to lie to himself. Canada is really, nothing like America after all. But he's just as spirited and sometimes Russia thinks he can be more at ease than America would ever let him be. But it doesn't stop the fact that America is the one he wanted, the one he couldn't have, and Canada is still the one he finds in his bed willingly.
Sometimes he'll find himself watching those pretty eyes haze and glimmer with emotion and whisper Canada's name in his ear, all tied up in the ribbons of his own language, little messages hidden, just as secretive as they are. And isn't that a thought? But that's not the here and the now, so while Canada settles his newspaper aside and touches his shoulder, Russia blinks and shakes the heavy thoughts from his mind.
"Ah, it's nothing. An idle thought is all." He smiles and in a move that halfway surprises himself, reaches up to catch Canada's hand in his own, slip his fingers in the span between Canada's. There's a pause and Russia blinks at their joined hands though he does little about it. How odd.
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After what feels like a long moment he softly replies, "don't let an idle thought get you down."
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"'Twas nothing, Matvey." He's silent for a moment longer, gaze lingering on the turn of Canada's wrist before it sweeps up to land on his purple eyes. There's a crinkle of a smile at his eyes despite the perplexed look Russia's own purple eyes hold. Yes, Canada knew the role he had in this relationship, just as Russia knew his. And Russia could never resist showing affection, especially to someone who accepted it so easily.
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He wonders for a moment if Russia even realizes how lovely that unforced, gentle smile of his is. Then his full attention is upon his hand at the kiss - light but electric, breath warm from tea caressing where his lips did not. It is especially jolting in such a public place (no matter how tucked away this little nook overlooking the street is).
And following in the wake of that is Russia using his name. That Russian variation meant just for him, just between intimates. Canada's breath catches at the emotions the rare use of his name brings up, a flush of affection colouring his cheeks and a sliver of desire causing his fingers to press more tightly into Russia's hand. There is also a tinge of relief - he doesn't have to act in America's role for the moment.
"Sorry, Ivan. If you say so." A part of him still wonders what Russia had been pondering, but if he says it's nothing, he won't press it. Instead he smiles to mirror Russia's gentle smile, hoping that the perplexed look in the other man's eyes will fade. Yet surely it is a futile hope. He's been called by his name; that must have used up all his luck for the day.
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But they are lovers and despite the lies and the masks, they're more intimate than either of them has probably been in a while. For all their change, the two of them are in this together and they became this way only because they opened up enough to let someone in and settle their lies deep. It's a terrible, beautiful thing and it simply has Ivan letting his eyes flutter shut, cheek resting against the bridge of their fingers.
"Mm," A soft little sound, more sigh than acknowledgement and Russia takes a moment to think about how easy it is to lean into Canada's affections. It was hardly a permanent thing, but still, he wonders. (As sometimes Russia finds himself doing.)
So those eyes of his flicker open again and settle on the swoop of Canada's neck, ghost up to latch on violet eyes and---oh that smile of his is gorgeous. That perplexed look is gone, a sort of gentle happiness easing its way into purple depths.
"I didn't mean to worry you."
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For instance, right now he's worrying about how comfortable this atmosphere is, how happy Russia is becoming, how happy he should allow himself to be feeling, and about how public a place this is for all of the above to be happening.
He dare not move his hand from the warm press of Russia's cheek. He doesn't want to break the moment. It's up to Russia if he wants to do so. They could go back to their drinks, Canada back to the newspaper and Russia back to people-watching. Or... or...
He makes himself look into Russia's eyes, rather than casting his gaze down after a moment as he tends to. Because Ivan is seeing him. And is happy to see him. For Canada, that kind of attention never gets old.
Selfishly, recklessly, he holds that gaze.
...Or he might be led into something he would eagerly drink up, hazardous though it is. (But, hazardous in ways that don't matter in the here-and-now.)
He's allowed to be selfish in this, i think XD
There's plenty for him to be worrying over, too, from the interlocked fingers, the public status of their surroundings, the gentle touches that are far more intimate in that they are actually understood as between the two of them. So with a little heaved sigh, Russia pulls back from where he was pressed, fingers still entwined with Canada's, eyes still locked. There's something in Canada's gaze that draws him in, has him leaning closer and reaching out with his free hand to catch jaw in hand, draw in the unresisting nation and place a kiss to those lips.
Russia could never quite resist a thrill after all, and messing with such potentially hazardous things, such relations that have a chance to end with them both wrecked, has him forging forward as if he cared not for the scene they could be causing and the mess he was creating in Canada's emotions.
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Then suddenly his jaw is caught in Ivan's hand, the other nation comes closer, and then-
The light kiss to his hand had been electric and jolting- the kiss to his lips causes Canada to blank out for a moment, as if struck by lightning. Not that they hadn't kissed before, of course, but it'd never been quite like this. This blatantly, in public, without the illusion of America between them.
Coming back to his senses with a start Canada leans back slightly, his face blushing brightly. (His whole body feels like it's blushing!) He takes in a slightly ragged breath, but can find nothing to say with it. His thoughts are too jumbled- 'let's not do this'- they have an arrangement and an understanding, but... who was to say that they couldn't change the parameters of the arrangement as they wanted. 'Not here', those two words an irrevocable invitation and confirmation that would put their feet on an even more dangerous path than they had been. But is this all an impulse- a moment that will fade as soon as they leave the cafe?
His mind continues to whirl through the haze of emotion, selfishly desiring more, reason trying to bring him to a stop.
(A well-placed word from Ivan in this moment will undoubtedly land Canada wherever he desires, and he can only hope it would be not to continue kissing here, in view of the street...)
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He's not too sure what he's doing really, but it's an impulse, a desire and right now Russia really just wants to make that blush darker and have Canada curling closer. He's selfish and though that's not anything new to them, it's apparent in the possessive way he draws Canada close, in the almost dangerous gleam to his eyes.
"I think--," Russia licks his lips and shifts to kiss the tip of Canada's nose, "--that we should get out of here, hmmm?"
Because they might be secluded enough to be mostly unnoticed, but who's to say that will last for much longer?
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At the question Canada ducks his head, buries the nose that Russia had just kissed into his scarf and nods. He blinks, realizing that one hand is still tightly holding Russia's, and the other has come to rest on his thigh.
His mind skips, trying to think of the closet place they can get to to be private. Besides the washroom (that's probably not good), they are downtown. Should be a hotel close...
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That nod...well, if Russia's being honest with himself he's more than pleased at how easily Canada gives into him. The unconscious touch the younger nation offers up simply serves to draw Russia in like a moth to flame. And above that? That thrill of flame that offers warmth and intrigue even as it can set his wings aflame and destroy him?
Well, above that lies the fact that Russia's not seeing America. He's not seeing those baby blues as he stares in Canada's eyes. Because the person in front of him is unmistakable even if the rest of the world tends not to realize it.
So Russia catches Canada up in another kiss, pulls back with a soft distracted sound and tugs him to his feet. If they didn't make it out of this little shop and find somewhere very soon he's not going to be pleased.
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He leans forward into Russia's kiss as the other nation pulls back and draws him up to his feet. As they part he sees a look on Ivan's face that he's somewhat familiar with- he'll be displeased if they don't get private soon.
But they are downtown, not in one of their homes or in an office as they usually are...
It's exciting that their reservations have dissolved so quickly, but now what?
Close by Russia's side as they quickly make their way to the door he murmurs in his ear, "could drive home, or check into a hotel. Should be one nearby." Unless he has any other ideas.
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Which of course, leads to him having to make a decision. On one hand, it would potentially take less time to find hotel, but on the other....driving home wouldn't take too long and there's the additional privacy and not having to worry about being seen or found out. So really...the option is a bit easy to choose. There's a warm look, fingers settling happily into the dip of Canada's wrist, tracing down the swell and crest of palm as Russia dips down and brushes a kiss to the shell of Canada's ear, murmurs, "Let's go home."
Which is to say, he twines their fingers together briefly, pulls back with a gentle stroke of thumb against skin and a soft possessive huff of laughter.
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Face down to try and hide his red face as he walks out the door into the street, he makes a bee-line for the car. Reluctantly letting go of Russia's hand once they get there he unlocks the door and settles in to the driver's seat, taking a couple deep breaths to calm himself. It wouldn't do to drive them into a ditch because he's emotionally distracted.
He knows the quickest way home. Ridiculous a wish though it is, he hopes that this atmosphere doesn't evaporate on the way there.
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There's a rough sigh against Canada's mouth as Russia draws back, teeth catching and tugging gently at the younger nation's kiss flushed lower lip. And with a sweep of darkened plum colored eyes and a smile that's all tease, Russia pulls back to finally let Canada drive them to his home.
As far as he's concerned, the atmosphere is definitely lingering around and though Russia might be separate finally, his gaze flits back and lingers, upon the redden curve of Canada's lips, the flush his cheeks bear and the arousal dark in his eyes. There's a pleased sort of notion settling upon his mind, smugness that he's the one he can do this to Canada.
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This is such a train wreck. But like any good disaster, it doesn't stop and he can't look away.
It takes him a few more long breaths before he feels like he can put the car into motion without risking running off the road right off the bat. He can feel Ivan's eyes on him, which helps keep his blush solidly in place. Every time he comes to a stop he glances over to meet those dark purple eyes. And his mind goes through the cycle again: he doesn't like the look in Russia's eyes, but he loves it at the same time... He doesn't mean to succumb so easily to these emotions, but he is jumping at it because it's what he wants...
Canada is not usually one to say 'to hell with the consequences', but he's feeling pretty close to that now. At the very least he should try to enjoy the moment while it lasts; who knows when he'll get this sort of attention again.
Finally he comes to a part of the drive without any lights, and boldly he reaches out his hand for Ivan's. He'll need his hand back when he needs to shift gears again, but for now, he just wants to maintain this connection.
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"You're warm." It's calmly stated, nothing that speaks about revelations really, but it's true. So Russia hums and presses his cheek against the bridge of their twined fingers, lets his gaze flicker over Canada. He'll let him pull away when he needs to, but for now it's actually a rather gentle moment despite the need from a few minutes ago, and though he can still feel his arousal curling in his gut, Russia's fine with this. Sometimes it's better to drag things out after all, to savor them and dwell within the moment.
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"You are too."
Canada also savours this calm, quiet moment. Their previous encounters were mostly daring and adrenaline-fueled with a high risk of being caught; this affair was uniquely theirs, being built as they went. And now that the urgency of desire had subsided somewhat, he could enjoy a bit more of a slow buildup. (Which is much more enjoyable, in his humble opinion.)
After squeezing Ivan's hand gently, he then takes it back to shift down. They are just over half-way there. After carefully making sure he's following the lower speed limit, he then lightly rests his hand on Ivan's thigh. It's just innocently, passively resting there.
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"I suppose I am," He smiles over the bridge of their hands and dwells softly on this build up. He's certainly fine with the way their previous rendezvous went, as adrenaline fueled and rough as they could be--but clearly this is something Canada enjoys, and so too does Russia if he's being honest.
There's more of that laughter, soft, warm, and Russia leans back into his seat, rucks a hand through his hair and goes back to watching Canada. Though there is a quirked brow at that hand on his thigh. My, Canada, how bold of you~! His fingertips soothe over the ridge of knuckle and pull back, settle once more in his hair even as he relaxes. He's somewhat familiar enough to know they're round half-way, but he's not concerned with that, more interested in the now.
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Y-yes, he is being a bit bold, in his quiet way... his heartbeat had quickened as he'd done it, uncertain at making such a gesture, but the brush over his knuckles reassures him. He's happy to leave his hand there, slowly warming the layers of fabric under his palm.
He wonders if he should say anything more. Or make some other gesture (driving though he is- and trying very hard to concentrate on that).
But then a distant memory of France comes to mind, at a time where, in his long-winded but elegant way, he had advised Canada to not be self-conscious but relax and do whatever came naturally. This context may or may not have been what France had had in mind (
when does France not talk about romance?), but it was good advice none the less.And for the moment he is happy to have Ivan watching him, laughing softly, letting him warm a small part of his leg with his one hand, and... just relaxing next to him. He finds it rather satisfying in a way...
Ah, how interesting that Russia can satisfy him in so many different ways.
He glances over to meet Ivan's eyes for just a moment, hoping to convey his quiet pleasure and thanking him for it.
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Russia breathes in and slips his fingers higher, traces against Canada's palm as he seeks to thread their fingers together once more. It's a gentle, slow movement and his gaze moves much the same, flits over the line of shoulder, the column of his throat, the crest of cheekbones and the ski slope of his nose. And finally, finally, comes to rest on eyes of a color so similar to his yet so utterly different. He breathes out. Smiles unconsciously.
There's a sudden, fierce, ache in Russia's chest and he's never wanted to kiss Canada more than he does in this moment. But they're still driving, and though Russia catches himself shifting a bit closer, lips parting just so---he pauses and blinks, hums to himself as he just thumbs at the skin at Canada's wrist and smiles. He understands that quiet pleasure in Canada's eyes, the thanks, and he's more than pleased that he can evoke that.
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For just a moment, before their eyes met and while Russia had been caressing his hand, he'd thought that there had been another spark in the atmosphere between them. The look on Ivan's face- The blush on Canada's cheeks that hadn't quite faded brightens a couple notches. He gently presses Ivan's hand in return, enjoying the gentle touch on his wrist and their fingers linked together.
He is thoroughly enjoying this slower, more relaxed pace brought on in part by the necessity of the drive home. But now- now there are almost there. He again reluctantly takes his hand from Russia in order to navigate the stops and starts as he enters the residential area.
What will happen once they get there? (Well, besides the obvious.)
The time with the office desk pops into his mind and he grins faintly. It hadn't been funny at the time, really, trying to figure out where everything from the desktop belonged afterwards. At least at home he won't have to worry about that, no matter where they end up. And right now getting there is half the fun.
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And they might have calmed down, settled into a slower pace but Russia's mind is certainly not as calm as he would like Canada to think. Like Canada thinks of that one time in his office, where they'd gotten impatient and rough, where he'd swept papers off the desk and pressed Canada down, bent him over and bit into his shoulder as they fucked rough against the hard surface of that desk. Surely Canada could never look at it the same way ever again, Russia couldn't, certainly would let his gaze linger knowingly whenever they met, alone or otherwise.
There's a blink, eyelids lowering half-mast and Russia's tongue traces the curve of his bottom lip as if to taste Canada upon it. There's a low sound and he thumbs at his lip, watches Canada drive with darkened eyes and waits ever more impatiently for them to arrive.
Once they do however, there's a pause. The car pulls into the driveway, parks, idles, turns off and he breathes in, out, leans over to kiss the shell of Canada's ear, nibble gently before letting his voice rumble low and husky.
"C'mon, Matvey." He pulls back, presses a kiss to the corner of Canada's mouth and withdraws slowly, tauntingly. He wants the younger nation to follow, to be entranced and needy. The smile that flickers at his lips speaks volumes of that.
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At last he arrived and parked, now the only sound is of Ivan breathing in and out. Then the other nation is kissing his ear, nibbling just the right spot tantalizingly, and then he breathes his name in his ear, capping it off with that taunting kiss.
He does indeed follow in an instant, leaning towards that smile that is literally captivating him. And on that smile Canada plants a kiss- caught up in the emotion of the moment he is not in the least self-conscious of the fact they are still in the car with clear windows all around. Doubtless his kiss speaks volumes as well, of how needy for this he is, and a hint of that deep-buried passion that comes from his French roots.
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He could care less about the fact that they're in a car with clear windows, could care less about one of Canada's neighbors seeing them--it would be a thing they've worked with before, quick trysts in offices always had the chance of running that risk after all. But right now Russia's focused on the nation in front of him, on the warm, nearly desperate way they kiss. His fingers twine into hair like spun gold and Russia's eyes open enough for him to watch the way Canada's features light up as he blushes, the way his face looks when he's caught up in a kiss. It's breathtaking and there's a soft groan, Russia's shoulders drawing together as he deeps the kiss. But now that they're here---it would be much better to get inside the house before he draws Canada into his lap and they wind up staying in the car.
So with a huff he pulls back, blinks and pants. His voice is still low and husky, accent thick, "We should move, yes?"
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He finds himself smiling sightly as he thinks about Ivan's voice. Even deeper, with a thicker accent than he usually speaks with... it's like the part of him that controls how he speaks has been given over to thinking of other things.
Of him.
The thought of Ivan concentrating on him excites him anew and helps propel him out of the car and (only somewhat unsteadily) to the door. Thank goodness for remote locking. A press of the button once Russia is out of the car, a turn of the key in the house door's lock, and they are inside.
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It doesn't take long to get inside the house, though certainly comes the moment of it being much too long and given the hand Russia lets linger at the span of Canada's back, he's showing that. He taps the door closed with one foot, catches Canada about the waist and pulls him close, presses him up against the door and catches him up in another kiss. Once more his hands find their way into the soft waves of his hair, palms cupping cheeks, and oh he's been waiting for what seems like too long to press the lines of their bodies together.
There's a soft sound, something that bridges on desperate, and Russia breathes Canada's name against his lips, voice heady and wanting. He doesn't pull back, doesn't open his eyes so he can focus on the soft yield of Canada's lips under his and the warmth of his body. There's a kiss pressed to the bow of his upper lip, a gentle nibble and Russia's tracing the curve of Canada's bottom lip with his tongue, tasting, wanting.
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Ivan's voice bordering on desperation, him saying his name in such a way- a sliver of dark satisfaction rises in Canada's mind. That he could drive Russia to this was somehow so ... he could hardly even think of the word for it (although 'hot' did spring to mind). If he drew it out even more, would Ivan get even more desperate for him? How far could he go?
The thought was enticing. Sex was sex and would be over quickly enough. But this...
Canada pecks a kiss to the tip of Ivan's tasting tongue and smiles as he slowly tries to shift from under him.
His voice is breathy as he asks, "let me take off your shoes?"
They had too much clothing between them as it was- coats and scarves and so on, but at least they could start with shoes before they got inside. (If they ever got past the entrance way at this rate.)