Brown is the Earth, Soil, and Dried Blood [CountryHumans]

05

“Remember when I told you that I’d race you to the moon?”

“Mhm.”

“I mean it. I’ll get there first.”

“Then you have to do a better job at reaching for the cosmos first.”

“You talk as if you’re any closer to escaping the Earth’s atmosphere.”

Soviet put the newspaper he was reading down and gave the American a small smile. He was. His pursuit of the stars never ended and there was a tragic sort of irony with the fact that the men who were the brains of the entire operation were his. 

"Wipe that smug smile off your face. I'm perfectly capable of winning our little race."

"How'd you say that."

"I have a trick up my sleeve."

"And that is?"

The American smirked, rising from his seat before he made his way to his companion, lightly dragging his finger across the table as he walked by. "Why don't you probe the answer out of me?"

"Answer first before probing," Soviet replied, putting the newspaper away. "For all I know you don't actually have a trump card, you sly pig."

United States sank onto his knees and he was on eye level with Soviet's crotch. "Have I ever lied to you."

Soviet rolled his eye, lifting his foot to let the heel of his boot rest on the other's shoulder, and he pushed the American away. "When have you not?"

"You're no fun, Union."

"What are you hiding?"

United States laughed. "A paperclip."

_________

Operation Paperclip— Operation Osoaviakhim. They were both essentially the same thing, employing Nazi German scientists and specialists as the United States of America and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics raced to break through the heavens and reach for the stars. And yet, there was a bitter taste in Soviet's mouth when he learned of the American's secret while he was too busy and too deep in the process of probing him, and it almost felt like he was watching him court death all over again. Sleeping with this capitalist country brought only suffering to those who dared to take a bite on the forbidden fruit of Eden,

and yet here he was.

Soviet bit down on the neck of United States who moaned in ecstasy as he relentlessly kept his quick, snappy pace. His mind refused to move on and his heartstrings threatened to snap, feeling as if he was losing something that he never even had to begin with. The American had once snatched him away from Soviet with false promises, but that was so long ago. Did it matter now, now when Soviet looked at the country screaming underneath him (“yes, right there! Don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop!”) and all he could remember was him.

This body wasn’t his, but it was close enough. This body wasn’t familiar, but his never was. He had cared so much, about silver eyes alight with life, and then in the end…

He remembered iron in his mouth. He remembered him gone, and an American smile.

This smile was not his, but when was the last time Soviet saw him smile?

_______

Fuck. His ass got blasted a bit harder than usual. States slowly rolled in the Russian's bed, trying to find a position he was more comfortable in. Sleep eluded him still, despite Union already giving him a half hearted back massage. 

Of course, sleepless nights weren't anything new to him. It was rare for him to lapse into a state of unconsciousness. He hadn't known proper rest in decades, only the tossing and turning in bed. 

"Stop moving," Union grumbled. 

"It's not my fault my back is killing me right now."

Union grumbled before standing up and walking out of the room. 

States raised his eyebrow, propping himself up. "Where are you going?"

He didn't get an answer.

_______

He rarely slept. His work ethic was less of a rigid schedule and more of a spontaneous burst for five and a half days straight with zero rest before hibernating at the end of the week, sleeping starting the eve of Saturday all until the dawn of a Monday. And even then, the main problem was to get him to fall asleep. 

Warm tea with honey with a short song was enough to sooth the nerves.

Soviet reentered the bedroom with a mug in hand. The American readjusted his glasses before grinning at him as he gratefully took the glass.

"How sweet of you."

Soviet made a non-commital noise before scooting into the bed beside him. The bigger country let his arm curl around the man beside him, gentle and careful not to hurt the American. He was so fragile and Soviet couldn't help but think that maybe the United States was too.

The capitalist country was just a lot better at hiding that fact. 

_________

States never liked tea for obvious reasons (his father) but he thought it would be impolite if he refused to drink his drink so he resolved to finish it all in one go to spare himself from prolonging his suffering. He handed Union the mug who placed it on the bedside table.

Well then, he should at least pretend to fall asleep. Even if Union did put in a fuckton of sleeping meds in that drink he wouldn't be able to pass out (he tried it before), but as States tried to worm away out of the Russian's grip, he was pulled back, and he lay on the bare, hairy chest of the communist, one ear close to the other's heart.

States was almost lost in the sound of his heartbeat when he heard the smooth yet deep voice of the Soviet Union. He was…

He was singing…

States was dumbfounded but could not really bring himself to interrupt the Russian's song. So instead, he curled up closer to the country and snuggled himself on his chest, closing his eyes to savour the slow tune until it was all that lulled him to a long and dreamless sleep.