Alfred glances at the digital clock that sits next to him on the bed stand.
The time read 12:07 am.
His eyes travel around the hotel room to the window where the thin white curtain were drawn, just open enough for some light to travel through.
It hits the soft fabric of the messy bed covers, the sounds of the city muffled by the wall and glass.
He was here for a world meeting, had been for a few days now. Only because of other meetings he had to attend and a little extra time with his family.
A larger arm drapes over him, adding heat against his back. Typically the touch from this man would inevitably result in several not so nice words and a swift punch to the face.
Not when they're like this.
It's true that America and Russia had a lot of hate filled sex during the Cold War, their spite and hatefulness that couldn't be satisfied with physical aggression. They figured out that the rough hate fucking filled that.
They used to go out of their own ways just to meet up with each other and do just that.
After, the tension between them had been dialed down. Even though the war had ended, it didn't stop the two from being with each other.
No, they continued to have more nights filled with the rough and aggressive intercourse. Neither would ever admit how much they craved it, how between every world or G8 meeting they would crave the touch of the other.
It was an addiction.
Much to American's disappointment they no longer made "appointments" for such activities. They would only occur if they previously had a meeting.
Either way, both enjoyed the sex more than they'd like to admit.
In past engagements after they finished the other would hastily leave, but as time went on they began to stay with each other longer.
Not for any reason other than they no longer felt like going back to their individual hotel rooms. Each of course had their own, their governments booked and paid for them. They would never utter a word to their national leaders, or any other nation for that matter of the kind of relationship they had.
Honestly they assumed it was clear that no one would suspect them, the sexual tension between them was discovered behind closed doors. The arguments and fights they had in front of anyone else could never allude to something more occuring.
Of course, America could be some what oblivious and Russia simply just didn't care what other nations believed.
"You should sleep." The accent of the Russian man cut through the silence. His nose gently went through golden blonde hair, holding the American close.
America hummed, taking one of the man's hands with his own and bringing it up to his lips to gently place them against the knuckle.
The tenderness with each other was new.
It was a foreign feeling neither of them understood nor discussed. Any night after one of their private meetings, it was never spoken of again.
"America." Russia says gently, his head peaking up over top of the blonde's "We have another meeting in the morning. We have to be up early, we must rest."
America pulls the hand away still continuing to hold it as he lets out a sigh. "I know. But I can't."
"Why?" A big hand cards through the hair, massaging the younger's scalp, which elicited a soft groan.
