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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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.)