Title: Le Blanc De Noir
Summary: That's not how alcohol works.
Pairing: Canada/Russia - in that order.
Rating: M, for Most Definitely NOT worksafe.
Notes: This is a horribly derivative plotline that I'm sure you'll all recognise from somewhere else. Like literally it has been done to death. I swear, I'll write something original someday. Thanks to Alistine for the beta job! :)
Disclaimer: I don't own it. I also don't own any champagne. This makes me sad on both counts!
The G8 meetings were supposed to cycle host countries, and generally this rule was followed.
The G8 meetings were also traditionally held in the capital city, or at the very least, some large city with easy access to amenities (and tourist schlock), of the host country. And generally, this rule was also followed.
And then there was the year France held it.
First of all, France was not even supposed to hold the G8 that year; it was Italy's turn. But England had held it the year before and France was evidently feeling snarky about that. Even though relations were supposed to be decent, as it was a time of peace and everything, France was ... ultimately France. And England liked baiting him a little too much, something he did relentlessly throughout the G8 hosted in Inverness. Evidently, France had gone home with a, "Oh it's on" kind of attitude, and all of them wound up receiving an email about the following year's location change not a week later.
It probably helped that Italy was pretty easy to bribe about these kinds of things.
So Canada naturally thought certainly that the conference would be held in Paris. Nice, maybe. Perhaps Orléans. Or Deauville. Deauville was on the smaller side, but really pretty.
Instead, it was held in Épernay. And even Canada, despite being a one-time colony of France, had to look that one up on the map.
It wasn't obvious why France had insisted on the tiny town - really, more of a commune, half the population of Medicine Hat - until Canada set foot in the place, and realised what France had planned. And maple, Canada thought, may I never get on his bad side.
The first day passed slowly. Very, very slowly. Canada had never found it difficult to think in a din (because America was his brother, after all) so much of the time this day was spent being quietly alone with his thoughts and watching the drama unfold about him. That may have explained the slowness, at least in part.
On the agenda for the day were the following:
- peace and security (but that was always sort of a theme)
- making friends with more Africans
- drug trafficking
- getting countries to stop hoarding nukes
And the list went on. Now, any other reasonable group of people would have been able to get through these topics with fairly little difficulty.
But this group was neither reasonable nor people.
Countries, Canada thought, have a strange habit of taking up a lot of time saying not much at all. A lot of effort was wasted on upholding grudges. Moreover, countries didn't mind grudges taking centre stage despite the fact that they had a job to do. Even Germany's usual policing of the meeting was done in a very verbose manner, telling people not to dance around the issues with an ironic amount of equivocation himself, which ended with Italy falling asleep and Japan snapping at him to get to the point already.
Nobody paid attention to Canada for the first topic. Unsurprising. What was equally unsurprising but a lot more saddening was how much attention was paid to America. America, whose chief strategy for peace and security was invading other countries under the pretence of delivering democracy to them like it was some kind of care package. Because fuck peacekeepers, obviously.
On this, Russia agreed 100% (although he hadn't heard Canada voice these opinions, because nobody heard Canada), and said so, which sparked another long debate regarding Russia's ability to do any real criticism in this field - cough cough Afghanistan, cough cough Chechnya, cough cough Georgia, South Ossetia, Abkhazia, etc - and then France backed up Russia and England backed up America solely out of contempt for France and that almost would have come to blows, were it not that someone (probably Italy) rang for lunch.
The second topic was a little tense, and Canada blamed Russia mostly for it, although when he tried to call him out on it he wasn't paid much attention. Fortunately America had heard and repeated it louder.
Although to Canada, that always sort of felt like telling a joke and nobody hearing or laughing and someone else telling the same joke only later and everybody finding it uproarious.
Not that he was bitter.
Anyway, Russia pretty much all out denied any sale of weaponry to Angola, who'd been a real thorn in their sides lately. America also tried to blame Senegal's fancy new guns on Russia, but Russia said no, Iran gave her those, and implied that America was too stupid to know the difference between any two Asian countries. This sparked a 'debate' between Russia and America, that had Japan jumping in the fray when America confused Korea's (minor) African donations with Japan's (substantial). Russia's crowing that America was simply proving his point in turn had to be shouted over by Germany for everyone to please calm down. That took five minutes to say, partly due to circumlocution and partly due to America not shutting the hell up, which got Germany mad enough that he threw his water glass across the table. That got France upset because the water glass nearly hit him, which got England upset because Germany missed. That sparked a fight between England and France that woke up Italy who whined for pasta.
So they rang for lunch. Again.
The third topic was fielded by England, who was exceedingly unhappy with the way cocaine had taken over. Of course, this was all Russia's fault. To be fair, considering that over half of Russia's economy was controlled by the crime syndicates, none of this should have been unexpected. But Russia aggravated things by sarcastically telling England to "lighten up, coke and heroin aren't all that bad, just you wait until your people try this krokodil nonsense they've been brewing in Moscow suburbs, it'll make them so happy they'll rot with joy."
Really didn't help the situation. Tact and Russia didn't really go hand-in-hand, though, because one of his hands held a vodka bottle and the other a lead pipe so unless he had a magic third hand, there was no room for tact.
England knew this. England was so fully cognisant of this that he was the first to say it whenever America was ready to fly off the handle. Nevertheless, Russia's rotten comment made England see red and they lost another two hours there.
The fourth topic was, once more, directed with strong glares towards Russia, who was smuggling radioactive stuff outside of the border. Russia actually got angry at this one, saying that America still had plenty of nukes left and that if he wanted to stop this he could dismantle his own and lead by example because isn't that what heroes do.
To which America retorted that Russia must've spent too much time near that concrete lake of his and fried holes in his brains, because no way was The Hero letting go of his weapons with an enemy like The Big Bad Communist Wolf around.
To which Russia replied that America was a capitalist pig feeding at a trough of greasy fetid meat-flavoured preservatives, and that it would serve the piggy some good to spend some time in a microwave, and that he should remove his snout from Russia's internal business bolshoe spasiba.
As amusing as it was to have Russia get upset enough to single-handedly bring the room temperature to 13 degrees, Canada noted none of them talked about the real threats, like North Korea, or Iran. When he tried to voice this, he was ignored.
"So what have we learned, Kumarigu?" Canada muttered.
"What?" the bear asked.
"That the Cold War never really ended," he replied.
"Oh," Kumasen said.
By the time five pm rolled around, Canada felt he could murder a drink (or a country), and so was thrilled when France announced they were all going to check out this great little vineyard down the road.
Because that was why France dragged them all there. Canada had forgotten all about it until he stepped foot inside the town but Épernay was champagne country. Really, really good champagne country. Canada grudgingly had to give France points for the plan, but hoped England wouldn't dive too deeply. Everyone knew how horrible the Brit was at holding his liquor: first, he'd get tetchy; then, maudlin, and finally, violently physically ill. And despite all his nonsense Hero talk, America was a total emetophobe, which usually left Canada with England's vomit in his lap.
That champagne had better be fucking amazing, Canada thought sourly.
France took them to the back where there was a nice big table for eight (reserved under F. Bonnefoy, because reserving it for the nation of France would probably seem a bit strange to the average barkeep) and introduced them immediately to the empty bottles in display frames on the back wall. England turned his nose up at both table and bottles until France noted with alacrity that Winston Churchill was Pol Roger's most devoted customer. That changed things, although England sniffed that it was really Sir Winston Churchill.
The waiter approached then and greeted the group, handing a large card to France. "Joli de vous revoir ici, Monsieur Bonnefoy. Ici la liste que vous avez demandé," the waiter said, "je conseillerais le Guy de Chassey demi-sec carte blanche. C'est le meme assemblage que la noire, mais la teneur d'alcool est plus forte."
"C'est très bien," France replied, sounding almost giddy, "nous commencerons avec quatre bouteilles. Et aussi le Pol Roger Winston Churchill -"
"That's Sir Winston Churchill," England muttered. France ignored him.
"J'aimerais bien l'essayer. Deux bouteilles. Finalement je vois que la maison offre le Krug. Une bouteille de la grande cuvée."
"Très bien monsieur. Quelque chose à manger? Les poissons iront bien avec les champagnes blanc-de-noires tels que vous avez choisi."
"Non merci. Mon ami ici est anglais," he said, gesturing to England, "donc, nous venons de finir un grand goûter de thé, sandwiches, biscuits, scones et gâteaux."
"Comme vous voulez. La cuisine fermera à vingt-deux heures si vous changez d'avis." But France merely smiled in reply.
Now the plot thickens, thought Canada, as England attempted - and failed - to drag an accurate translation out of France, who was keeping absolute mum and grinning so hard Canada thought his face would split.
For France had outright lied to the waiter, telling him that they'd just come from a particularly heavy British tea and were all full. This confirmed Canada's initial suspicion upon setting foot in Épernay - France planned to get them all completely wasted. Amusingly enough, France wasn't counting on there being anybody in the group who spoke good enough French to translate the rapid discussion. Unfortunately for France, like most people, he'd forgotten about Canada.
Also, holy maple, he thought. France just ordered seven bottles of champagne. That was a bottle apiece!
Well, almost. If you forgot about Canada, then they were seven, and then it was one apiece. Evidently even Canada forgets about Canada, he thought darkly.
An hour and two glasses later, he was feeling the buzz. He wondered if it would be possible to flag the waiter down to get something to eat. But then everybody else would want something to eat, and at that point, England had already drunk three-quarters of the bottle devoted to Sir Winston Churchill, claiming it was his patriotic duty (to which America had toasted triumphantly and the two of them downed the remainder of their flutes, which France promptly refilled). Putting food in England's belly now would be a bad idea.
Surprisingly, England wasn't the worst off. That would be Japan, who was so flushed his skin looked like he'd been sunburnt, had been the first to lose his suit jacket, and was now discussing sushi rather loudly and animatedly to Germany, who was - leaning in to Japan almost too much and smiling broadly. For all of Germany's blustering about beer, he didn't seem to be unaffected by champagne. And Italy was dozing on Germany's shoulder, though that could've been either drunkenness or just sleepy Italy. America and England were having a heated discussion which to Canada, looked more like taking turns interrupting each other. France was taking advantage of both their distraction to keep the sparkling wine flowing, but even France was getting a little bleary-eyed.
And then there was Russia. Russia, who had gotten up to use the washroom a half hour ago and sort of blinked, confused, when he stood upright, putting a hand on the booth to steady himself. "You going to be alright, there, chap?" England asked, giggling.
"Da, I will be fine," Russia assured him with a smile. "I think I am done for the night, however."
"Non, absolument pas!" France insisted. "Don't you always have vodka around? This is nothing to you, I'm certain."
It took a moment for Russia to properly absorb that statement but he nodded firmly - which wasn't really an answer - and left. When he returned France had refilled his flute and he seemed to have forgotten his earlier protestations and began on his - Canada had lost count - whateverth glass.
Presently, he felt a warm weight sit down next to him, far too close for comfort. Almost before he could think, dammit, this is going to be like that time Russia mistook me for a chair all over again, he heard, "You are not drinking anymore."
Russia to his right was pointing to their glasses. And evidently acknowledging his presence. Oh, goody, thought Canada dully, I've levelled up from furniture.
"I-I'm just resting a bit," Canada explained.
Russia smiled beatifically and poured him another glass anyway. "I think France is trying to get us all intoxicated," he murmured.
Canada agreed with a nod, and had to stop Russia from pouring - he wasn't paying close attention and the flute would overflow. "So, um. What made you come all the way over here?" he asked.
"Ah," Russia said, sipping gently at his own flute, "France is not great conversation right now, everyone else was either talking to each other or asleep. And you seemed lonely."
"Lonely!" he spluttered, mildly offended.
"Nyet, eto normalno, I was lonely too." Russia's accent is a little thicker when he's inebriated, Canada thought. Then again, he was finding it strange to see Russia clearly inebriated at all. France had said as much himself earlier: the man had vodka about him all the time. Surely he could handle a little 750ml bottle of 13 percent?
"I think different kinds of alcohol affect us differently," he told him.
"Da, I agree. Just look at Germaniya!" Russia giggled. "He is not usually so ... so ..."
"That is a kinder word than the one I was thinking."
"Oh? What word were you thinking of?" Canada asked curiously.
And Russia leaned in even closer, their faces centimetres apart, and said breathily, with a grin, "Slutty, perhaps." And if it were possible, Canada felt his head spin drunkenly at the exhalation. Maple, Russia, he thought, just how much have you had to drink?
"I suppose," Russia continued, sidling up even closer to Canada and laying an arm over the back of the booth that blatantly missed and caught his shoulders instead - they were now sitting so closely their sides were connected, and he hadn't felt overly warm until now, because Russia was like a fire brand at his hip - "he is not the only one."
"Um," he coughed. What precisely was this? Not - not that he was entirely opposed, far from it, Russia was attractive and he hadn't spent any time with anyone in awhile. And alcohol seemed to be taking the creepy edge off marvelously. Instead of Russia, batshit crazy nation that couldn't make up its mind between several kinds of totalitarianism, he was just Russia, a really handsome guy with beautiful eyes and a smile that could light up a room. Canada found himself nestling gently, and hopefully imperceptibly, into Russia's arm.
"Forgive me," Russia said, "I must appear very forward. But I have not spent much time across tiny lake that divides us, you know."
"That minor Iron Curtain problem, eh," Canada murmured, wondering if Russia would notice it if he laid his hand on his leg, his left holding his champagne. Russia had really nice legs, too, it was like they just didn't end, they were so long. He chanced it; Russia didn't notice a thing.
"Da. And very little time indeed with England's favourite, during period of our history when we are not at odds with one another."
Canada froze. Russia plundered on.
"Now of course, given comments earlier today, you must think we are still at some sort of impasse. I admit I was not terribly nice. But I assure you, all is forgiven on my end if same can be said of yours! We have agreement?"
Canada sighed and tried not to clench his hands, because one of them was gripping a delicate crystal stem and the other was on Russia's thigh. At least he wasn't furniture, but, dammit, could no one tell him apart from America? England's favourite indeed. He'd laugh himself sick the day he found out England even knew his name.
Feeling dejected, Canada said, in a voice practically devoid of any real emotion, "Sure, I agree." And he clinked his flute morosely with Russia's and downed it for strength, thinking, Amazing. The only real conversation I get all night is with someone who's mistaken me for someone else. He considered removing his hand from Russia's leg, as Russia blathered on about something in his ear, not very loudly but closely enough to make him shiver, to make him want to lean into the action.
He tried not to frown too hard, and this time, didn't mind when France refilled his empty flute without even so much as a look at Canada, because frankly, he felt it would serve him right. He had half a mind to progress with Russia even if he thought he was hitting on America. At least that way he'd get some.
And it'd - it'd serve Russia right, too!
"So," Russia began, "I hear Japan is looking to dock at ISS soon for resupply mission."
"Oh?" Canada replied. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Well it is not like you do not already know of the schedule. These days, there are no secrets and I am certain your government tells you these things. I know there have been cutbacks, but let's not go crazy, da? Also," Russia tilted his head forward, murmuring conspiratorially, "do not tell Citizen Honda you heard it from me, but I have feeling that weight on their crafts is unbalanced to one side. So the arm could use some work before they arrive."
That's right, he thought, the arm. The arm that we made. That everybody uses. "Maybe you can talk to the Canadians about that," Canada muttered.
"Merely a suggestion. We are also planning cranes for other end of station." Russia smiled and leaned in again, tracing the back of Canada's hand with a sly finger almost thoughtfully. "You know, Roskosmos has many interesting things happening, I would be delighted to share some time. Make it unlike old times, when we never told each other what we were doing and wound up doing same thing two different ways."
Canada 'hmmed' noncommittally, but America chose that very moment to laugh his fool head off, loudly.
Russia had taken his silence for some sort of acquiescence, and snuggled deeper into Canada's neck, murmuring something in Russian that Canada didn't catch. But neither he nor America spoke the language. "What was that?" he asked, curious, hoping he'd get an English translation. If nothing else, he might at least come out of this with blackmail material.
"Ah, I said you have lovely eyes," Russia repeated in English. He leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek sweetly, and Canada felt disgusted with himself. There's no need to be so stupidly ... gentle, he thought, if all we want is to fuck each other. "Very uncommon hue."
He leaned back and curled the stray hairs behind Canada's ear for him, the touch a lot more delicate and enchanting than it had any goddamn right to be. Despite himself, Canada moaned.
I am so pathetic, he thought, and turned his head away.
Russia seemed a little dismayed at the body language, like he wasn't going anywhere fast. He drained his champagne - how the hell did France manage to keep moving around the table so fast, anyway? Canada wondered - and backtracked. "Are you still upset that we bid for Olympics directly after you did? We were not trying to show you up, honestly."
"Olympics?" The last time America had had the Olympics was 2002. Then hadn't Greece got them after?
"Da," Russia explained matter-of-factly. He winked and leaned in closer, "Znayesh, va Sochi?"
"Uh-huh," Canada replied, "and two years before Sochi it had been England."
Russia laughed derisively. "I often do not think of Summer games, not since those pesky laws have made it difficult for me to do well in swimming. I mean the ones that matter of course. But really I'm glad we bid when we did! I had been hoping it would have been us in your finals for hockey and when that did not happen I was very upset. Not to mention performance with pairs ice dancing. I still blame your judges; after all, everyone laughed at Diaghilev and less than twenty years later nobody was laughing." But then Russia brightened and said, "Oh well, at least one of us beat America."
"Yeah, well about -" Wait. "Wait, what? Hang on," said Canada. "Just - back up a minute. Who are you talking to?"
Russia gave him a strange look, and then his features softened and he put down his flute so that he could free up his right hand to stroke Canada's cheek. It was a gesture that was probably supposed to be a lot more gentle than it wound up being, but Russia's voice was quiet and meek as he said sadly, "Oh, dorogoy... have you forgotten yourself?"
"N-no, but - okay, sure. Let's say I have. Who am I, exactly?"
"Obviously, you are Canada. I really don't understand, is this a game?"
Perhaps it was the fourth glass of champagne talking that made this sound like a brilliant idea. Perhaps it was the elation at not only being not ignored, but also recognised and talked to. Irrespectively, Canada set his flute down on the table with a heavy 'thunk', took Russia's face in his hands - Russia's eyes went wide - and kissed him soundly on the mouth. Then he said, "Yes. It is a game. And we won."
"Indeed," murmured Russia, his voice very low and his expression hungry, "and what is the prize?" When Canada merely smiled in reply, he leaned down and asked, his lips brushing Canada's neck, whispering the words against it, "That is to say - if I asked you - well, would question to this be opposite of whether you would sleep with me?" Russia paused and thought a moment, distracted. "No, that is not logical. Give me a moment, I do know how this goes."
"Your room," Canada said, trying not to laugh and offend, "lead the way." Because mine has a bear in it, he thought. A bear who would probably be annoyed at not having advance notice or advance food, but he could deal with that later.
Russia stumbled as he left the booth, and Canada also found his balance a bit off, having been drinking while sitting down for so long. But crashing into Russia didn't knock him off his balance so he supposed all was well. In fact, Russia appeared to appreciate the gesture and smiled.
"Where are you going?" asked France. Both Russia and Canada turned to face him, trying not to look so caught-in-the-act. "Are you really so tired already? It's not even nine! Goodness, Russia. You can take less alcohol in your old age!" He tittered, and England and America next to him laughed along (though by how boisterously he was laughing, America likely hadn't understood the joke).
"Nice try," Russia retorted. "Now I have better things to do than to sit here and get drunk." He grinned down at Canada, leaning heavily on his shoulders.
"Oh? And what's that? Pray tell," England asked.
Russia looked from Canada, to England and France, and back to Canada. "No," Canada confirmed, sobering a little and patting the back of Russia's palm soothingly, "they can't see me. Just, let's get going, eh?" he said, and gently nudged Russia towards the door.
"Can they not count to eight?" Russia said, flustered, and Canada held back his 'neither could you until you got some booze in you' comment.
But amazingly, they were noticed not two steps from the table. "Hé, Canada! Where have you been, mon cher?"
France. As if. Russia giggled in a particularly 'I told you so' manner and Canada fought the urge to roll his eyes as he turned around. "I've been here all along," he replied.
"I did not see you! Did you have some champagne? Oh! Here is a glass, let me pour you some -"
"No, th-that's fine, thanks!" he quickly said, one of the few times he would actually interrupt. "Actually, though, that's a good point. Do we... owe you for any of this?"
France looked at him, blinked, looked at the table, blinked again, as if confused as to how seven bottles managed to be on it. "This?" he asked, confused.
"The champagne, France."
"Oh. Oh! Non, think nothing of it. A contribution to the continued good relations between our little family of eight!"
"Yesss," slurred Russia lowly in his ears, "very good relations," and chuckled.
It made him blush furiously, but nevertheless he thought, Russia may very well be my new favourite drunk. "Okay then," Canada said to France, "I'm going to take this one back to his room."
"Well, come back soon. Such an ange you are, jouer les Samaritains comme ça!" France said, and began loudly and drunkenly praising his ex-colony, immediately sparking a debate with England, which America insisted be settled with shots. Canada reminded himself to thank his brother for the convenient distraction later.
"Good Samaritan, yes indeed," Canada echoed dully, walking Russia out of the bar. "Come on, don't be such a heavyweight, eh? Walk a little with me," he asked, grunting under Russia's weight.
"Is that how story went!" giggled Russia. "I do not recall that from any books we were given."
"You read the wrong books," he joked.
"So I see," Russia replied, his breath hot on Canada's neck, but leaning on Canada a bit too heavily again. Just a little bit further, the hotel was so close -
Russia chose the moment just before Canada would have walked them both successfully through the door to slam him up against the outside wall of the hotel and practically mash their faces together. Canada thought he'd never been so glad for a hotel with no bellhop, and perhaps it was better that Épernay was so small after all, because this was downright embarrassing -
And then Russia seemed to sober just enough to apply some actual technique, and he tilted his head, so that their teeth didn't clack together quite so much and their lips fit together like some kind of sweet, glorious perfection. Though Canada wouldn't ever admit to moaning, he was certainly glad for Russia's strong body pressed against his, keeping him upright, because his knees seemed somehow suddenly weak and his heart felt like it was fibrillating.
"Inside, yes?" Russia murmured, when they broke contact.
"Oh, yes," Canada agreed, as much as an excuse to move his lips against Russia's as any. If he'd harboured doubts about this, they'd dissipated pretty thoroughly in the thick mist surrounding his head, and he happily let Russia drag him through the lobby to the elevator.
Russia gave him only enough time to press the button for the right floor before he slammed him up against the opposite wall of the elevator. Unsure whether this was Russia's standard style or simply impaired balance (and knowledge of one's own strength) upon inebriation, Canada allowed the motion and the subsequent kiss. It was exceedingly enjoyable until the cabin gave a lurch as it decelerated; Russia broke contact to giggle like the elevator was some kind of Ferris wheel. "Non-inertial reference frame!" he crowed, and then when Canada gave him a strange look he explained, beaming proudly, "Contribution of Russia to world of theoretical physics has been prolific. Is a bit loud in my head now!"
Ridiculous physics interjections from a man with an infectious smile. "You are definitely my new favourite drunk," Canada laughed.
"I win again!"
"Amazing. Where's your key?" asked Canada, leading a stumbling Russia through the hallway. There were only so many rooms in the hotel - it was really closer to a bed and breakfast - and he knew where France and England were staying on the third floor, which left the remaining one for Russia.
"Mmm. In pocket," Russia murmured, getting touchy again. Canada found it amusing, but difficult, to try and rummage through the many pockets of the overcoat while Russia chuckled against his neck, somehow managing to have bared enough flesh between his blazer and his wrinkled white shirt to stick his face. He wasn't sure which one of them was having better luck, as Russia seemed to think that retribution was in order and attempted frisking him right back. Finally, triumph, he thought, his hand closing finally around a tiny plastic card in the inside breast pocket.
And not a moment too soon, because Russia had somehow managed enough fine motor skills to unbutton Canada's shirt and undo his belt. Okay, bedroom, he thought impatiently, now.
They stumbled in awkwardly; Canada barely mustered the thought process to turn on the light and lock the door behind him as Russia attacked with hands and lips. He suspected he'd require some thread later - Russia had gotten frustrated with all those fiddly little buttons on his shirt and just ripped it open - but it was worth it, because at some point (who knows when) Russia had discarded his gloves, and those lovely, long, warm fingers were on his waist, his chest, all over.
This is delicious, he thought, and looped that damn scarf off Russia's neck, which was difficult to do with Russia's mouth currently fixed on the junction between his throat and shoulder and sucking, hard. "Ah," he breathed, and let the scarf fall gracefully to the floor.
Russia didn't even register its disappearance, but did notice when Canada ran his fingers through his hair, cradling his head almost tenderly. It made him finally pull away, his lips wet and red. "You look good like this," Russia told him, his eyes wild and dark, so dark.
"You, god, you too," Canada replied, feeling somewhat debauched with his shirt sliding off his shoulders and halfway down his arms, prevented from falling off completely by the suit jacket. He wriggled out of it and tossed it roughly behind Russia, which provided Canada with a convenient excuse to put his arms around Russia's waist.
Russia leaned in again, completely this time, letting the entire length of his body fall gently against Canada's. He kissed Canada's temple softly and took a slow, deep breath, nuzzling his cheek. "I have wanted to do this so long, probably since the Superseries," he murmured, against Canada's skin, sending shivers down his spine for two reasons. Canada could feel Russia's chest against his, Russia's deep breaths pressing them together harder. Why is he still clothed? Canada wondered. "I remember seeing you play Sweden during break in games and thinking, no, he's mine."
"You never said anything," Canada replied, in a hushed tone. This is starting to look like an even better idea, he thought, as he pulled Russia's overcoat open and off his arms, letting it pool at his feet. "Never said anything at all."
But Russia didn't defend himself against that with words. He instead insinuated his thigh between Canada's, forcing a gasp out of him, and yanked him forward by his open belt. His heart pounding in anticipation, Canada marvelled some at the powerful, heady feeling of knowing someone was physically turned on, by him - and knowing that it was him, to boot!
Russia kissed him quickly but deeply, and then broke all contact and backed up. Canada frowned, until he saw Russia hastily removing his boots. Right, he thought sluggishly, boots come off before pants, and made quick work of his own. He practically strained his ankle in his zeal to remove them - he'd gone and forgotten about the damn zipper and they were fairly tight. By the time he'd finished Russia looked ready to pounce on him again.
"It doesn't make sense," he said breathlessly, "to do something like this on a door when there is a perfectly good bed right behind you."
"Da, poniatno," Russia replied - whatever the hell that meant - and came closer to take his hand and lead him forth. (Taking his hand! As though taking his hand were some sort of courtly, chivalrous act instead of what it really was, which was a brutally intoxicating Russia in his personal space, cupping his shoulders with a sure, firm grip and sliding them over his biceps, down his forearms, to intimately lace their fingers together.)
As it was, Russia fell backwards, sitting down and pulling Canada forwards onto his lap. Canada wondered if perhaps it was a good thing he was still a little buzzed; otherwise he possibly would have been so anxious he might have misplaced a knee. Instead he fluidly accepted the motion and pinned Russia to the mattress between his thighs. Russia didn't seem to mind, and even leaned back and smiled that beautiful, wide grin, that showed off slight dimples in his rounded cheeks.
"You're still wearing too much," Canada complained, and fiddled with Russia's waist, fumbling the tucked-in shirt out and over his head, because screw patience for buttons. "Far too much," he hissed against Russia's throat, and as he kissed it he worked away at Russia's belt.
Russia's reply was to cant his hips upwards sharply, grinding himself against Canada. Cruel, he thought, finding himself responding to the rhythm, and retaliating by pushing Russia backwards to lie horizontally on the bed. Russia attempted to prop himself up on his elbows but Canada shoved him back down, using his weight to fix him there.
Momentarily Canada was concerned that this would be overly dominating and that Russia could get insulted. But then, "Yes," Russia breathed, with Canada's hands on his chest and his lips at his throat, "oh, yes." Canada took that as a sign that he probably wasn't minding any of it.
By the time he reached Russia's waist, his fingers clumsily unfastening Russia's pants and slipping them past his hips just far enough to release the pressure, Russia was much louder. Part of Canada hoped the walls were thick enough not to disturb England or France, should they return. The other part didn't really care, because Russia's cries were really starting to get to him and if he didn't get some relief soon, he'd burst. "Please," Russia keened, his hands clutching the quilt tightly, "ah please, yes, do it -"
It would be truly wicked, Canada thought, to refuse such a request when he asked so politely.
Still Russia seemed surprised when Canada actually did take his erection - heavy and thick, he didn't know why Russia didn't make more of a deal of it, America would never live it down if they ever compared, because like the rest of Russia, this thing was frankly gorgeous - into his mouth. "Ah," Russia groaned, his voice taut, and he sort of sweetly balanced one of his hands - the one that wasn't clutching the quilt for dear life - in Canada's hair, running his fingers through it in a way that made Canada shiver.
Oh, god yes, he thought, feeling helpless against the urge to touch himself, this was a brilliant idea. Russia didn't even have to do much to drive him wild, just the way he was reacting was maddeningly hot and he was practically there already. And yet ...
Hang on a second. He forced himself to stop and thought, there's a more efficient way to do this. Canada ceased the motion of both his hand and his mouth, sat up, and hopped off the bed.
"Why did you stop!" Russia exclaimed, the needy voice not matching the angry look in his eyes. Canada grinned, thinking, one part of you is overreacting.
"Only temporarily," he reassured. The drawer of the nightstand held only one item, a Gideon's bible.
Russia groaned from the bed. "That stupid book, here too?" he asked.
"Relax. If I know France like I know France," Canada said, pulling out the book and opening it, "then this is not like the books you were given." Triumphantly he spilled the contents of the hollowed out book onto the quilt - a week's worth of condoms (France has ambition, Canada decided) and a full bottle of decent quality lubricant. "I wonder how long it took him to do this," he thought aloud.
Russia looked at the condoms, then at Canada, then at Canada's erection, judging carefully. Finally he blushed and nodded. "If that is the game you would like to play, I shall play along," he said, and scooted himself up backwards on the bed, kicking his pants off.
Canada had been in the middle taking off his pants completely, but paused to throw him a dirty look. "That's your attitude? Playing games? Look Russia, if you don't want this -"
"Nyet, I do, and, and to be fair I have had enough to drink that I probably could not perform well anyway, so is better that, that you - but -" Russia cut himself off suddenly, blushing uncharacteristically and avoiding his eyes. Honestly, the quilt was not that interesting. "It has been awhile for me, da? And, and you are -"
"Going to ensure you enjoy every minute of it," Canada finished, his voice steady but his tone soft. He sighed and returned to the bed, leaning on his right hand over Russia. Something about Russia's sudden shyness made Canada feel braver as a result, and he ignored the contents of the bible, leaving them strewn over the bedspread, for Russia's neck, cradling one side in his left hand and kissing the other side softly but passionately. He let his hand fall across Russia's chest, skimming the skin very lightly, and Russia sighed and relaxed.
He likes being taken care of, Canada concluded, kissing Russia's chest caringly, and, he also doesn't mind someone else taking the active role. That surprised him. What hadn't surprised him was how Russia dodged the issue, finding it so difficult to say what it was he'd really wanted. Ah, you and my darling brother are more alike than you think, he thought, and distracted Russia with his mouth again.
Russia was evidently still nervous, however. He noticed when Canada deftly stole the bottle off the quilt, and when he heard Canada opening it, his trembling fingers betrayed his anxiety. Canada sucked harder, took him in deeper, wanting to tell Russia to stop worrying, stop thinking so hard, and slyly pressed a finger between his legs.
Russia froze, so Canada redoubled his efforts, and somewhere between Russia's hands through his hair (which felt better than it had any right to be) and his moans - god his voice is amazing - Canada managed to get his index finger inside.
Russia didn't relax at all, so the second was a minor battle with his muscles. But he doesn't seem to be not enjoying it, Canada thought - in fact, the edge of pain almost seemed like it was pushing him further. "Ah," Russia panted, "ah, god -"
"It's not so bad, eh?" Canada teased, freeing his mouth. He mouthed the junction between Russia's left hip and thigh sweetly, and thrust his fingers forward as he kissed.
He twisted his fingers, trying to force Russia to relax, and Russia grew louder, much louder. "Don't - don't stop, don't stop, please, Canad- ngh, Canada!" Canada felt his hips lurch forward intentionally. God, yes! he thought, and wondered if it was still considered narcissism to get off on that, when he had an excuse of nobody ever knowing who he was.
It was unlikely he'd be completely ready, but Canada made short work of a third finger. Much longer and Russia was going to drive him insane; he'd already had to force himself not to take his left hand off Russia's hips, he was throbbing so hard.
"Please," Russia said again, as Canada sat up and reached for one of the condoms. And though he wanted to make Russia clarify - just to hear him say it, please what, darling? tell me - that would be cruel as winter.
He was careful not to go all in one fell swoop. It was a good idea for both of them - for Canada, who thought Russia telling him it'd been awhile felt like the goddamnamazinglytight understatement of the century, and for Russia, whose eyes, jaw, and fingers were clenched closed. So Canada waited, occupying himself with resting his hands on Russia's thighs, rubbing his thumbs soothingly back and forth until Russia relaxed, and pushed in some more and then waited, touched again and pushed in some more, until finally he was completely sheathed inside.
Russia did him the courtesy of lifting his legs up to encircle Canada's waist loosely. It let him lean down and kiss Russia softly on the neck, on the throat, because Russia had gone and bared this portion of warm skin so nicely and he really loved the way Russia reacted when he did it.
"You can move," Russia whispered. "It is okay."
Thinking that he would greatly prefer something more than okay, Canada took it slow anyway. He couldn't wait much longer, there was this terrible itch, this hunger, deep within his body ... Canada was thankful he had the presence of mind not to let loose entirely.
Desperately he fumbled for the bottle of lubricant and squeezed a decent amount onto the hand that wasn't going to be gripping Russia's beautiful, soft hips, and stroked him in time to the gentle thrusts. He angled his hips, searching, which made him lean back. Russia frowned and, privately, Canada agreed, but this way would be quicker, and speed was of the essence. Perhaps some other time they'd do it more closely.
Deeper, until - mm, yes, must be there - he could feel Russia react to that. "Ah, more," Russia's grip on the quilt loosened, and he put one hand on Canada's upper arm, and the other overtop Canada's, on his hip. "Yes, oh, like that." His face was flushed.
"This was - mm, a brilliant idea," he told Russia, so turned on that his head was swimming with desire. Upon later reflection he would admit that could also have been the alcohol.
But Russia - who looked very much more than okay - only replied in a rushed wanton litany of "yes" and "please" and - what made him really lose it - "Canada". Hearing his name so desperately broken - Canada shuddered and barely, just barely kept it together for Russia to finish first.
The last thing he saw before he too, clenched his eyes shut and came, his blood pumping madly, pulse racing in his ears, was Russia, Russia, arched back against the sheets, his voice hoarse, his cheeks bright red. He felt Russia's ankles dig into the small of his back and thought it felt almost painful before he could think of nothing else and gave in to the dizzying shock of climax.
Canada pulled out and gently laid down on top of Russia, kissing his neck and feeling touch-starved. Russia tilted his head backwards and sighed, a soft smile on his lips. They lay there a minute, slowly relaxing, Canada stroking the side of Russia's jawline in a manner somewhere between possessive and reverent. Russia held him quietly there with an arm around his waist, skimming the skin back and forth so lightly it tickled.
"What is it you call yourself these days?" Russia asked, breaking the silence with a quiet, calm voice.
"Such as how France calls himself Francis. In case people get nosy about names."
"Ah," Canada understood. "It's Matthew, these days." The alias changed from generation to generation. Everyone was always so confused as to why he didn't age if he didn't.
Russia nodded against his shoulder. "They call me Ivan," he replied.
Canada didn't have the heart to tell him they exchanged these names a decade ago.
Quietly he extricated himself from Russia's embrace - he felt filthy and wanted to at least wipe himself off. When he got to the bathroom he figured he might as well take a shower - it wasn't like these were Russia's towels, anyway.
He probably should return to the bear, though. If Kumachiro hadn't eaten all his clothing as a substitute for food, he would soon.
Canada returned with his damp towel to find Russia fast asleep on top of the quilt on the far side of the bed, curled up in a ball. As softly, and gently as possible, he wiped him off and lifted the cover over the man's prone body. Russia didn't even move. Must not find the giant scary nation adorable, he thought, watching him silently, and debated leaving at all.
In the end he did leave. He collected his clothing, though he didn't bother with finding all the buttons, they had scattered all over the place and he didn't feel up to crawling around on hands and knees.
But before he left, his shirt open at the front and hanging loosely, he laid a glass of water with two aspirin on the nightstand, and kissed Russia on the temple.
True to his suspicion, Kumakira had eaten three pairs of pants.
"I hate you so much sometimes," he said, tossing the stupid animal a fish from the cooler. The bear sniffed the fish, then sniffed Canada and asked, "Who?"
"Canada," he replied absent-mindedly.
Kumachu tore into the belly of the fish messily and clarified. "No, who?"
"Oh," Canada understood. "Um. Russia. And don't talk with your mouth full."
Kumanoku gulped the flesh down loudly and - if a bear could actually do this - sneered. "He won't remember you."
"Of course not, eh, I didn't bother leaving him a fuckin' note," Canada snapped.
He still won't remember me, he thought angrily, and felt stupid for getting upset with a bear. Nobody ever does.
The following morning, Canada woke up to his alarm which he had set for 8:30 am. He got up, took a shower, got dressed, and found Italy at the conference room over croissants and coffee.
"You're here early," he said. It took a few tries, but he eventually made himself audible.
"Ah! Good morning! I thought you had a lot more to drink last night, America?"
Canada tried not to let it get under his skin.
One by one everybody filtered in except England. Ordinarily, Canada knew this would make France gloat uproariously, but France had his own hangover to nurse.
Germany seemed alright, but then again, Germany's default setting was somewhere between pissed off and 'too mature for this nonsense'. Japan was just really quiet. Again, default Japan.
America was also really quiet. Which was a pleasant change. He trudged through the doors around ten-thirty in the middle of Germany's quiet discussion about global energy efficiency, took his seat, crossed his arms on the table and laid his head on them. He looked so miserable that Canada actually felt quite sorry for him.
Finally, in walked Russia at half-past noon, during lunch. Canada's heart skipped a beat, and even though he couldn't control such things he still felt stupid.
He took one look around the table once he had taken his seat (without wincing, Canada noticed, so, there was that, at least) beside France, asking him where England was. France replied that England wouldn't be joining them until late afternoon.
"Did you get back alright?" France asked him, two seats down from Canada. "I confess I was a bit worried about you."
"I was fine. Slept a while."
France chuckled. "So did America. Though, I thought, perhaps you were not as drunk as he. Tell me, do you remember anything from last night?"
The moment of truth.
"Nyet," Canada overheard, "not a thing."
His heart skipped a beat again. Stupid, traitorous organ that it is, he thought angrily.
"I told you so," hissed Kumasero from under the table, and Canada didn't even answer him, hoping no reply was more hateful than anything with words.
He didn't cry. He felt hurt, yes. He felt pathetic, and worthless, and used (even though wasn't he the one who'd done the using?), but he didn't cry.
He'd cried the first few times this had happened, but that had been some fifty years ago. By now, he was really used to it.
Canada finished his lunch in silence.
Translation and other notes: In re: the French exchange between France and the waiter, pretty much all you need to know is what Canada translates, which is that France is a dirty filthy liar and wants everybody sloshed by 7 pm. The actual script isn't that important, but here's a loose translation if you really love languages:
Waiter: Nice to see you again here, M Bonnefoy. Here's the list you requested. May I recommend the Guy de Chassey demi-sec (fairly sweet) carte blanche (white label)? It's the same blend as the [carte] noire (black label) but the alcohol content is higher.
France: Excellent, we'll start with four bottles. And also the P R Winston Churchill - I'd like to try it. Two bottles. Lastly I see here the Krug is available. One bottle of la grande cuvee (kind of like 'superior quality').
W: Very good, sir. Anything to eat? Fish would go well with blanc-de-noire (see below) champagnes like the ones you've selected.
F: No thank you. My friend here is English and so we've just come from a large tea with sandwiches, biscuits, scones and cakes.
W: As you wish. The kitchen closes at 22h (so, 10pm) if you change your mind.
Accent speech: the Russian parts are written romanised (mostly), not phonemically, so here're the translations with the original for accurate pronunciation.
bolshoe spasiba (большое спасиба) - thank you very much (lit. big thanks)
Nyet, eto normalno (Нет, это нормально) - no, it's okay (lit. no it's normal)
Znayesh, va Sochi (Знаешь, в Сочи?) - You know, in Sochi? (straight translation)
jouer les Samaritains - idiomatic English equivalent is to be the good Samaritan (lit. to play the Samaritan)
Da, poniatno (Да, понятно) - in this case, is like, 'right, gotcha'. (lit. yes, it is understood)
The title comes from a champagne term. Blanc-de-noir means literally 'white from black' and refers to the fact that you can use red or white grapes, champagne will still be a light yellow colour due to the extraction process of the juices. (Contrast with: blanc-de-blanc, which is a champagne blend that only uses white grapes.) It also has at least one metaphorical interpretation that I leave up to the reader. The summary comes from the fact that I am mocking myself because alcohol is alcohol is alcohol. You do not get drunk 'more differently' on champagne than you do on straight up vodka. (So really, Ivan should be able to put away a good two bottles with the tolerance his vodka habit gives him.) This is a scientific fact that I pretty much completely ignored.
Hope you enjoyed :) happy hallowe'en, incidentally!