A/N: Hey look, I still can't write a properly characterized Russia! And my yandere!America isn't as scary as he should be. I continue to disappoint myself. Anyway, more short random Cold War fic. You might figure out where and when exactly this is set if you're enough of a history buff.

Disclaimer: I disclaim.

Give Me Your Tears

"Cry for me." For a second Russia thinks he's misheard, turning abruptly on his heel to stare in slightly stunned confusion.

"Wha-" Oh.

It's America. And he's got that look in his eyes again. Eyes so blue, like nothing found in nature. The sky wishes it were that blue. Some people might venture to call the shade 'Electric' but privately, Russia calls it 'Nuclear'.

"You heard me." America grins like Hollywood, flashy and fake and oh-so-enticing. Russia's interest is piqued in spite of himself; he hasn't seen America in this mood since 1973.

"No." He says, but does not look away. He's testing the waters, and America knows it if the way he tilts his head and lets his grin widen until it all but splits his face in two is any indication.

"Come on," is America's reply, hands jammed casually into the pockets of his well-worn bomber's jacket, "I want to see if monsters cry. Show me."

"Do you cry?" Russia asks, and for a moment he isn't sure if it's really the retort he intended it to be or a genuine inquiry. America, for once, doesn't miss a beat.

"Heroes don't cry." He quips, making a little flourishing gesture with a gloved hand that catches Russia's attention and almost reminds him of the Italies. Except the Italies would never get this close to him, walking over with a casual stride and a predatory air. "I'll make you a deal." America says, and Russia inclines his head. 'I'm listening.' Is the implied response. "You cry for me, and I'll bleed for you." Russia stops breathing.

"That's a good trade, isn't it? More than fair," America continues, pretending he doesn't notice the effect his words have had, "no money involved either, that should satisfy your fucking Commie principles." The derisive language is spoken with a air of friendliness that crosses the border into callous. Silence descends. Russia isn't so much speechless as calculating, thinking over his potential responses.

"...No." He says, at last, and the surprise on America's face is quick and genuine, no effort is made to disguise it. America is the child Russia pretends to be.

"Why not?" America asks, disappointment flooding his features, and Russia shrugs and looks aside nonchalantly, as if he is not riveted by America's expressions.

"Tears are more precious than blood." Russia replies easily, and America tilts his head, like he doesn't understand, so Russia explains. "Blood may be shed whether one wills it or not. It is shed every day, in massive quantities, all over the world. If I wanted to see your blood, I would not need your permission." America bristles at this, opens his mouth to argue, but Russia raises a hand to stop him. "I am not saying it would be easy. I would likely end up bleeding myself in the process, but still I would be able, at the very least, to make you bleed if I wished. But I cannot make you cry. If a person truly does not wish to shed tears, it is incredible how much resistance they can put up to deny another the satisfaction. Tears are more difficult to obtain than blood, so they are more valuable."

"But you don't need tears to live." America argues, suddenly vehement, the good humor of a moment ago has vanished. "If you lose too much blood, you'll die, but you can cry all you want and still live."

"And you can still find blood in a dead body," is Russia's response, unhesitant and logical, "it congeals, yes, grows thick and black and not like blood at all, and eventually it will be gone. But you find no tears at all." It sounds almost as if he has looked.

"You're not making any sense!" America huffs, and crosses his arms, the picture of a sulking child. Russia smiles, indulgently, and shrugs again.

"Perhaps not to you." He says, but gets no reply. After a moment, Russia speaks again. "I would trade my tears for yours."

"I don't cry." America glares at him. "I told you, heroes don't cry."

"Nyet. Heroes cry, America." Russia informs him softly.

"I suppose you're gonna say I'm a monster then." America gives him a defiant look, that gleam in his eyes daring him to start an argument, demanding he issue a challenge.

"Nyet. Monsters cry too, America." There is no challenge, and America is confused. He looks lost now, arms unfolding, his lips part but do not voice the question that rests on his tongue. Russia answers it anyway. "Only the dead do not cry, America. Only the dead."