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There were many things England and Russia could not agree on.
For instance, while England loved the first snow of Winter and making snow angels and snowmen and snowscones, Russia hated the snow. And while Russia would sit inside and thoughtfully watch the rain every time it came for a visit, England despised the stuff. But they made up for it every time it was clear and sunny. At which point they would usually stroll down the street to the ice cream store and buy one large milkshake to share (because while they both always forgot their wallets - always - there was always still enough hiding in their coat pockets to buy one for them to share and nothing else) and they were okay with that, even though England really didn't like strawberry but Russia wouldn't drink anything else - unless there was alcohol in it. And that is exactly why Arthur Percival Kirkland always carries a small flask of vodka in his bag, usually disguised as juice of some sort so all the annoying anklebiters and their parents wouldn't throw a fit (though you'd think they would have figured it out by the time they've finished the entire milkshake and Arthur is singing God Save the Queen in between sentences -- Russia can hold his liquor a little better but usually manages to wobble a little on the way out).
Yet, there were so many things that they agreed on. After a few years of being an item, they learned to, out of sheer fear of the consequences. Because when the two fought, they were brutal. It would start simply, always simply. Something to do with what paper they ordered (because come on Ivan you know I can't speak Russian, but you can speak English!) or which brand of alcohol they got. And then Arthur would go caustic like a woman on her period, start pronouncing his name wrong on purpose (he knew it was ee like the letter and vawn like the Von Trapp family and not eye like the ones on your face and van like the kind paedophiles drive but he did it anyway) and then when he made tea for them the next morning Russia would push it away even though he knew he liked England's tea and he had made it the same way he did every other morning. And then England, after many minutes of frantic sex, would yawn dramatically, look over his shoulder and ask 'are you in yet? I'm quite bored you know,' and then Russia would call him caterpillar eyebrows! and England would call him ox nose! and one or the other would leave for a while.
The last time, England had stormed off and gone back to London, only calling a week later at two in the morning his time and five in the morning Russia's time, swearing that he really wasn't drunk and he really didn't like him at all and he would absolutely be on the first plane back to Moscow in the morning.
And he'd knocked on the door of the little flat nervously, let himself in, and muttered 'I always thought you liked my eyebrows'.
Russia had responded with a soft 'I do,' and continued with 'I always thought you liked my nose'.
England had been quick to say 'but I do,'.
And there was a silence there, a long, cold silence that made them both realize how terribly it sucked to be without the other.
And they'd each agreed to celebrate their reunion however the other wanted to. Russia had gotten a brand new pot of tea (and was allowed to fill it up with his favorite alcoholic beverage before he drank it without England getting pissy) and England had been allowed to drag Russia out shopping for some new apartment decorations.
And that was where they were left.
The salesman had been very nice (and his level of charm had increased exponentially when England found out he spoke near-perfect English) and had promised that they could take their new drapes home and hang them up, see how they liked them and, in a week, if they didn't enjoy them, they could return them. Russia had been fine with this until he'd seen the pricetag, and hadn't spoken to England at all on the drive home. Nine thousand rubles for drapes was ridiculous and he wasn't going to pay for any of it.
And that was fine, England told him. Because he would pay for it. Though they both knew he couldn't afford two hundred quid drapes either.
"Come now, they match everything in the house!" He'd said, proudly hanging them up by the large bay window they had in their living room, "They're perfect!" Perfectly heavy and thick so when they truly wanted to be gentle and make love (and not ruin their reputations doing it, neither of them were really known for 'making love') and perfectly lightweight and easy to draw when England's exhibitionist streak flared up (and heaven forbid they try to fuck while on chatroulette again, especially not after they'd seen Canada and Cuba doing the exact same thing, because meetings after that were incredibly uncomfortable and Russia really did not like the fact that Cuba now knows what his balls look like in England's mouth) because sometimes they wanted to see every last neighbor focused on them.
Russia, at that moment, had turned and gone to make dinner. England had to come up with a plan, and fast.
By the time Russia was done and was calling in his boyfriend for the beet soup he'd made, the island nation was curled up in the drapes, on the floor, touching himself. Russia stood in the doorway and crossed his arms.
"They are not that good, dorogoy."
"But they smell like you now, the mother will never take them back~" Was the response. And he had, indeed, had a little something to drink. The smell of beet soup made him crave rum, what could he do?
"Dinner is ready," The Russian had seemed thoroughly unimpressed at England's antics (especially since he'd started trying to be more enticing, rubbing his nipples and moaning at an utterly obscene volume) even as he strode over to him and kneeled. "If you do not eat your half, I will be happy to take it."
England pouted up at him. "But I've let myself grow out and I want you to see it."
That certainly perked Russia's interest. A week ago, before the fight, he'd told England that he wished he would stop shaving all his pubic hair. England had decided that yes, he really only did it out of habit, not for any real desire to, and it shouldn't hurt to give it a try. Apparently the fruits of his labor had now come in. With an exasperated (but still interested, still very interested) sigh, he tugged on the drapes to expose the very naked man underneath. A childish grin, nevertheless, found itself on his face as he unwrapped his gift and found a small, budding bush of sandy brown hair.
"The carpet," He muttered, "It matches."
"That's what I've been trying to tell you all day you idiot!"
"Nyet, I am meaning your carpet."
"My what? Oh," Arthur hadn't really bothered to look all that much, having more important things to attend to, just then remembered that while his underarm hair and eyebrows were a dark brown, his pubes did, indeed, match his hair. It was odd, after all, and the joke had been made that his genes got mixed up and switched his eyebrow hair with his pubic hair, but he hadn't ever made a deal out of it himself. He supposed he should have, what with the way Russia seemed utterly fascinated with them. "Wait a second," he looked up at the Russian, "Where the hell did you learn that phrase?"
Russia gave him the look that very clearly said you know, I know, but for the sake of my sanity and your mood I am not going to tell you. Those things were, after all, the two most delicate things in their relationship. Arthur tried not to picture America's smiling face as Russia went down on him.
And when he did reach his climax he 'accidentally' felt so good he rolled out of Russia's mouth and ended up giving a nice white stain to their drapes.
They lay beside each other for a moment, Arthur's post-sex grin mixed in with his tipsy one. "I'll split the cost with you," He mumbled after a while.
"Only if I am getting another favor," Russia shrugged.
They agreed to eat their soup cold and then take a trip down to the ice cream shop for a strawberry milkshake, plus vodka.