"Soviet, you cheeky bastard." He walked up to the larger nation, almost pinning him against the wall. He pressed his hand against the other's chest, pushing him back until he bumped the hard surface with the back of his head, cap riding up in the back when no room was allowed to it. "What makes you think I'll let you just get away with something like that?"

Soviet looked coolly down at him. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes you do, fucking commie. You're trying to starve Pr- East Germany to death, just to keep him out of my hands."

"Oh, you speak of the blockade."

"Yes, I 'speak of the blockade'" he mocked, throwing a terrible, heavy accent over the words. His left hand twitched, seemingly making to reach for some weapon, and instead looped his fingers in the other's uniform's belt loops. He pulled his hips closer, and the Soviet Union let him. "What's it gonna take for you to realize that this isn't going to work? I have the air to get supplies over."

Soviet hummed. "It's not possible to fly enough supplies over for it to be of consequence. So no matter what, you'll fail just the same, and Berlin will fall to me."

A flash of anger crossed the American's face, but he covered it quickly, hoping that the darkness of the hall around them would have hidden it; he knew it hadn't. "I won't let my mentor fall to someone like you. And you can't tell me what's possible and what isn't. I am what separates possible from impossible."

Soviet's eyes turned to ice, and he fixed on an indifferent expression to hide his thoughts. He leaned close, so close that their breath mixed warm in the damp, chilled air. "Then prove it. Show me that you define possibility."

America smirked, and closed the distance between them roughly. He tasted blood from the other's lip, already busted from the point of his canines clipping the soft tissue, and internally celebrated. They was still vulnerable, no matter how high their pedestals were. Just as human as the next stranger on the street.

Soviet let him lead, doing nothing but playing along for the time being. In truth, he had been bored the past while, and he needed something to shake things up a bit. At least, that's what he'd been telling himself. There wasn't much to convince yourself of when you're sitting alone in the dark, frigid air from the outside creeping in, and the only other sound in the house in pained whimpering and hushed whispers.

Their mouths worked in tandem, hands explored places they knew they shouldn't, and neatly pressed uniforms were shifted out of place. Decorative medallions clinked together and they forced themselves apart, never fully untouching, however, and worked to clumsily unbutton jackets and coats with imprecise movements. Halfway through, the project was abandoned in favor of urgency. The need to touch, to feel, was overwhelming to the point that the very air in which they breathed was charged with it.

America carded a hand through Soviet's hair, navy blue glove contrasting sharply with the snowy whiteness, cap falling forgotten to the floor. His grip tightened, and he pulled back against the wall, forcing his chin to be tilted up, and left the other's always well protected throat vulnerable.

The American left a trail of hot kisses down the other's jaw, leading his way down to the sensitive, marred skin. "You know, it wouldn't take much effort at all to just rip your throat out right now and end this whole charade," he chuckled, such a sinister sound, and bared his teeth, closing them around Soviet's throat, the threat very obviously present.

Soviet hummed. "It would be," he said, purposefully forcing his voice into a purr, making sure America could feel the vibrations. And feel them he could, full intimidation taking a small effect already. "But, you won't. You'll not ever harm me in such a way. You can't."

"I can't? Is that a challenge?" He moved on, pulling the Russian's scarf down roughly to get it out of the way. "Because if it is, you have more of a deathwish than I had thought." Soviet said nothing, just humming once more in the velvety purr that sent America reeling every time. "Fine, I'll show you. I can be just as violent and overpowering as you."

With little more than a flick of his wrist, America had Soviet on his knees against the wall, hand still tangled tightly in his hair. He looked down at him, and he glared right back up. But he didn't try to stand, or pull the man down with him. He was placid. He was complacent. He was the perfect image America had only ever had fevered dreams of. And he was right here at his mercy.

"You're so much more beautiful when you're silent and on your knees like this. It's much more enjoyable." His other hand brushed under his chin, tilting his head just right, violet eyes catching the ribbons of light leaking their way into the hall. Soviet leaned closer to him, and America helped him along, until his cheek was almost pressed flush against the navy blue, stiff fabric on the inside of America's thigh.

Alfred's glasses tipped down his nose until they seemed as though they were about to fall, and he slipped them off, folding them and tucking them into one of his many pockets, the wire frames quietly clicking against each other.

But the similar clicks echoing through the hall were too loud to be from that, and both of them looked to the doorway through the corners of their eyes. A pale silhouette framed in the yellow, pooling light.

Their voices were both cold.

"Prussia."

"Beilschmidt."